PR  6039   H72  W5    1909 
UNIVERSITY   OF  CALIFORNIA,    SAN    DIEGO 


\ 


3  1822  01096  8840 

PR 

6039 

H72 

W5 

1909 


:OLN  DIED 

D  OTHER  POEMS 


RD  WILLIAM  THOMSON 


^    LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

V. 


t  f  ■■piiiiii  ^ 


lONDON  BOOK  CO. 

224  W.  Broadway 
Jlendale,  Calif.  91204 


WHEN    LINCOLN   DIED   AND    OTHER 

POEMS 


WHEN   LINCOLN  DIED 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


EDWARD  WILLIAM  THOMSON 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

1909 


COPYRIGHT,   1909,    BY   EDWARD   WILLIAM   THOMSON 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  March  iqoq 


To  S.  M.  S. 

One  Autumn,  after  early  snow  had  sprinkled  fields  with  white, 
It  seemed  that  quickening  Spring  returned  to  Earth  with  fresh 

delight, 
Grass  greened  again,  pink  blossoms  pranked  the  twigs  of  orchard 

trees, 
Good  children  found  ripe  strawberries,  new  roses  puzzled  bees, 
Bold  robins  that  had  flocked  afar  flew  back  by  ones  and  twos. 
The  girls  resumed  their  summer  frocks,  the  boys  their  canvas  shoes. 
And  people  thanked,  as  I  thank  you,  the  life-renewing  Sun 
The  more  because  such  things  were  so  unseasonably  done. 

E.  W.  T. 


NOTE 

Here  I  express  my  gratitude  to  the  Editors  and  Publishers 
of  "The  Atlantic  Monthly,"  "The  University  Magazine" 
(Montreal),  "Collier's  Weekly,"  and  "The  Youth's  Com- 
panion," for  liberal  encouragement  given  me  by  their  serial 
publication  of  sundry  of  the  following  poems. 

E.  W.  T 


WE  TALKED  OF  LINCOLN 

We  talked  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  night, 
Ten  fur-coat  men  on  North  Saskatchewan's  plain  — 
Pure  zero  cold,  and  all  the  prairie  white  — 
Englishman,  Scotchman,  Scandinavian,  Dane, 
Two  Irish,  four  Canadians  —  all  for  gain 
Of  food  and  raiment,  children,  parents,  wives, 
Living  the  hardest  life  that  Man  survives, 
And  secret  proud  because  it  was  so  hard 
Exploring,  camping,  axeing,  faring  lean. — 
Month  in  and  out  no  creature  had  we  seen 
Except  our  burdened  dogs,  gaunt  foxes  gray, 
Hard-feathered  grouse  that  shot  would  seldom  slay. 
Slinking  coyotes,  plumy-trailing  owls, 
Stark  Indians  warm  in  rabbit-blanket  cowls, 
And,  still  as  shadows  in  their  deep-tracked  yard, 
The  dun  vague  moose  we  startled  from  our  way. 

We  talked  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  night 
Around  our  fire  of  tamarac  crackling  fierce. 
Yet  dim,  like  moon  and  stars,  in  that  vast  light 
Boreal,  bannery,  shifting  quick  to  pierce 
Ethereal  blanks  of  Space  with  falchion  streams 
Transfigured  wondrous  into  quivering  beams 
From  Forms  enormous-marching  through  the  sky 
To  dissolution  and  new  majesty. 
And  speech  was  low  around  our  bivouac  fire, 
Since  in  our  inmost  heart  of  hearts  there  grew 
The  sense  of  mortal  feebleness,  to  see 
Those  silent  miracles  of  Might  on  high 
Seemingly  done  for  only  such  as  we 
In  sign  how  nearer  Death  and  Doom  we  drew. 
While  in  the  ancient  tribal-soul  we  knew 

ix 


WE  TALKED  OF  LINCOLN 

Our  old,  hardfaring  father-Vikings'  dreams 
Of  Odin  at  Valhalla's  open  door, 
Where  they  might  see  the  Battle-father's  face 
Glowing  at  last,  when  Life  and  Toil  were  o'er, 
Were  they  but  staunch-enduring  in  their  place. 

We  talked  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  night.  — 

Oh  sweet  and  strange  to  hear  the  hard-hand  men 

Old-Abeing  him,  like  half  the  world  of  yore 

In  years  when  Grant's  and  Lee's  young  soldiers  bore 

Rifle  and  steel,  and  proved  that  heroes  live 

Where  folk  their  lives  to  Labor  mostly  give. 

And  strange  and  sweet  to  hear  their  voices  call 

Him  "  Father  Abraham,"  though  no  man  of  all 

Was  born  within  the  Nation  of  his  birth. 

It  was  as  if  they  felt  that  all  on  Earth 

Possess  of  right  Earth's  greatest  Common  Man, 

Her  sanest,  wisest,  simplest,  steadiest  son, 

To  whom  The  Father's  children  all  were  one. 

And  Pomps  and  Vanities  as  motes  that  danced 

In  the  clear  sunshine  where  his  humor  glanced. 

We  talked  of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  night 
Until  one  spoke,  "  We  yet  may  see  his  face," 
Whereon  the  fire  crackled  loud  through  space 
Of  human  silence,  while  eyes  reverent 
Toward  the  auroral  miracle  were  bent 
Till  from  that  trancing  Glory  spirits  came 
Within  our  semi-circle  round  the  flame, 
And  drew  us  closer-ringed,  until  we  could 
Feel  the  kind  touch  of  vital  brotherhood 
Which  Father  Abraham  Lincoln  thought  so  good. 


CONTENTS 

We  Talked  of  Lincoln ix 

Poems  of  Lincoln  and  the  Great  War 

Father  Abraham  Lincoln 3 

Mary  Armistead 10 

When  Lincoln  Died 24 

The  Vision  at  Shiloh 31 

Parables 37 

Poems  of  the  World-Wide  Brotherhood 

The  Many-Mansioned  House 41 

Peter  Ottawa 47 

Parliament  of  the  Ages 62 

King  Volsung  and  the  Skald 68 

Ballads,  Lyrics,  Meditations 

Thunderchild's  Lament 77 

The  Mandan  Priest 80 

Chief  Nepoquan's  Lament 83 

Ridgeway  Fight 87 

Day  Dream 03 

The  Canadian  Rossignol  (In  May) q4 

The  Canadian  Rossignol  (In  June) nc 

Sweetest  Whistle  Ever  Blew 98 

Our  Kindergartner lOO 

Elegy  for  "the  Doctor" loi 

Hail  to  the  Chief 103 

A  Canadian  Reply  (To  one  who  would  refuse  Liberty 

to  the  Boers) 105 

xi 


CONTENTS 

To  the  Princess  Louise,  on  the  Death  of  Princess  AHce  107 

Environment       108 

Resurrection no 

Judgment  Hour in 

Happyheart 113 

Our  Town's  Comforter 115 

Brethren  of  the  Boat 117 

Cupid  in  the  Office 119 

Prelude II9 

I.  Reverie II9 

II.  The  Christmas  Walk 120 

III.  Cul-de-Sac I2l 

IV.  April  Holiday 121 

V.  Consolation 1 23 

VI.  The  Puritan 123 

VII.  Kismet 124 

VIII.  Hepaticas 124 

IX.  Flown        125 

X.  Enshrined 126 

The  Bad  Year 128 

To  Theodore  Roosevelt 129 

Translations 

Gastibelzah.  From  the  French  of  Victor  Hugo      .     .  133 
O   Canada,   mon    Pays,   mes   Amours.     From    the 

French  of  Sir  George  Etienne  Carrier 136 

To  Brittany.   From  the  French  of  W.  Chapman    .     .  138 
Mother  and  Child  (Old  France  and  Nev^).  From  the 

French  of  W.  Chapman 139 

To  my  tv7o  Mothers.  From  the  French  of  W.  Chap- 
man    142 

Autumn  Song.  From  the  French  of  Achille  Frechette  145 

To  Canada.    From  the  Sclavonic 146 


POEMS  OF  LINCOLN  AND  THE  GREAT 

WAR 


FATHER  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

My  private  shrine.    The  Gettysburg  Address 
Framed  in  with  all  authentic  photographs 
Of  him  from  whom  the  New  Religion  flows. 

Homely  F    That's  it.    A  perfect  homeliness. 
Homely  as  Home  itself  that  countenance 
Benign,  immortal  sweet,  his  very  soul, 
The  steadfast,  common,  great  American. 

It  is  a  gladness  in  my  aging  heart 
These  eyes  three  times  beheld  himself  alive, 
Ungainly,  jointed  loose,  rail-fence-like,  queer 
In  garb  that  hung  with  scarecrow  shapelessness 
Absolute  figure  of  The  States  half-made. 
Turning  from  toil  and  joke  to  sacred  war. 


My  heart  has  smiles  and  tears,  remembering  how 

The  boy,  fourteen,  round-cheeked  and  downy-Hpped, 

With  Philadelphia  cheese-cake  freshly  bit, 

Halted  to  stare  on  marbled  Chestnut  Street; 

He  could  not  gulp  the  richness  in  his  maw, 

Because  that  black-frock-coated  countryman 

Of  bulged  umbrella,  rusty  stovepipe  hat, 

Five  yards  ahead,  and  coming  rapidly, 

Could  be  none  other  than  the  President, 

From  caricatures  familiar  as  the  day. 

A  'sudden  twinkle  lit  his  downcast  eyes. 
Marking  the  cheese-cake  and  the  staring  boy; 
Tickled  to  note  the  checked  gastronomy, 

3 


FATHER  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Passing,  he  asked,  "Good,  sonny?"  in  a  tone 
Applausive  more  than  questioning,  full  of  fun. 
Yet  half-embracive,  as  your  mother's  voice. 
And  smiled  so  comrade-like  the  wondering  lad 
Glov(7ed  with  a  sense  of  being  chosen  chum 
To  Father  Abraham  Lincoln,  President. 

Such  was  the  miracle  his  spirit  wrought 

In  millions  while  he  lived.   And  still  it  lives. 

He  stalked  along,  unguarded,  all  alone, 

That  central  soul  of  unremitting  war, 

A  common  man  level  with  common  Man. 

The  heart-warmed,  wondering  boy  stared  after  him, 

And  wonders  yet  to-day  on  how  it  chanced 

The  mighty,  well-loved,  martyr  President 

Went  rambling  on  unknown  in  broadest  day 

On  crowded  street,  as  if  by  nimbus  hid 

From  all  except  the  cheese-caked  worshipper 

He  sonnied,  smiled  on,  joked  at  fatherly. 


II 

That  night  the  streets  of  Philadelphia  thronged; 
No  end  of  faces;  one  great  human  cross, 
As  far  each  way  as  lamp-post  boys  could  see. 
Packed  Ninth  and  Chestnut,  waiting  Father  Abe; 
The  Continental's  balcony  on  high 
Glowed  Stars  and  Stripes,  with  crape  for  all  the  dead 
"We  cannot  dedicate,  nor  consecrate." 

On  chime  of  eight  precise,  gaunt,  bare  of  head, 
They  saw  his  tallness  in  the  balcony-flare. 
And  straightway  all  the  murmurous  street  grew  still, 
Till  silence  absolute  as  death  befell. 

And  in  that  perfect  silence  one  clear  voice 
Inspired  began,  from  out  the  multitude, 

4 


FATHER  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

The  song  of  all  the  songs  of  all  the  war, 
Simple,  ecstatic,  sacrificial,  strong  — 
'We're  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 

more  "  — 
And  neighboring  voices  took  the  long  refrain 
While  some  more  distant  raised  the  opening  words, 
Till  to  and  fro  and  far  and  near  at  once, 
Never  in  chorus,  chanting  as  by  groups. 
Here  ending,  there  beginning,  some  halfway, 
All  sang  at  once,  and  all  renewing  all 
In  pledge  and  passion  of  the  mighty  song, 
Their  different  words  and  clashing  cadences 
Wondrously  merging  in  a  sound  supreme, 
As  if  the  inmost  meaning  of  the  hymn 
Harmonious  rolled  in  one  unending  vow 
While  all  the  singers  gazed  on  Lincoln's  face. 

Hands  gripping  balcony-rail,  he  stooped  and  saw 
And  listened  motionless,  with  such  a  look 
The  boy  upon  the  lamp-post  clearly  knew 
'The  heavens  were  opened  unto  him," 
'The  spirit  of  God  descending  like  a  dove"  — 
Until  the  mystery  of  the  general  soul 
Wrought  to  unwonted  sense  of  unison 
Moved  all  to  silence  for  the  homely  words 
Of  Father  Abraham  Lincoln  to  his  kind  — 
Words  clear  as  Light  itself,  so  plain  —  so  plain 
None  deemed  him  other  than  their  fellow  man. 


Ill 

Once  more.    A  boy  in  blue  at  sixteen  years, 
Mid  groups  of  blue  along  the  crazy  road 
Of  corduroy  astretch  from  City  Point, 
Toward  yonder  spire  in  fatal  Petersburg, 
Beyond  what  trenches,  rifle-pits,  and  forts. 
What  woeful  far-front  grave-mounds  sunken  down 
To  puddles  over  pickets  shot  on  post  — 

5 


FATHER  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

What  cemeteries  shingle-marked  with  names 
Of  companies  and  regiments  and  corps, 
Of  mouldering  bones  and  rags  of  blue  and  gray, 
And  belts  and  buttons,  rain  and  wind  exposed  — 
Mired  army  wagons  —  forms  of  swollen  mules  — 
Springfields  and  Enfields,  broken-stocked,  stuck  up 
Or  strown,  all  rusting  —  parked  artillery  — 
Brush  shelter  stables  —  lines  and  lines  of  huts. 
Tent-covered  winter  quarters,  sticks  and  mud 
For  chimneys  to  the  many  thousand  smokes 
Whose  dropping  cinders  black-rimmed  million  holes 
Through  veteran  canvas  ludicrously  patched  — 
Squares  of  parade  all  mud  —  and  mud,  and  mud. 
With  mingled  grass  and  chips  and  refuse  cans 
Strown  myriad  far  about  the  plain  of  war. 
Whose  scrub-oak  roots  for  scanty  fires  were  grubbed. 
And  one  sole  house,  and  never  fence  remained 
Where  fifty  leagues  of  corn-land  smiled  before. 

Belated  March  —  a  lowering,  rainless  day 
With  glints  of  shine;  the  veteran  tents  of  Meade 
Gave  forth  their  veteran  boys  in  crowds  of  blue, 
Infantry,  cavalry,  gunners,  engineers. 
Easterner,  Westerner,  Yankee,  Irish,  "Dutch," 
Canuck,  all  sorts  and  sizes,  frowsed,  unkempt, 
Unwashed,  half-smoked,  profane  exceedingly. 
Moody  or  jokeful,  formidable,  free 
From  fear  of  colonels  as  of  corporals. 
Each  volunteer  the  child  of  his  own  whim, 
And  every  man  heart-sworn  American 
Trudging  the  mud  to  view  the  cavalcade 
Of  Father  Abraham  Lincoln  to  The  Front. 

He,  Chief  Commander  of  all  Union  hosts. 
Of  more  than  thrice  three  hundred  thousand  more, 
Rode  half  a  horseneck  first,  since  Grant  on  right 
And  Meade  on  left  kept  reining  back  their  bays; 
Full  uniformed  were  they  and  all  their  train, 

6 


FATHER  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Sheridan,  Humphreys,  Warren,  Hazen,  Kautz, 
Barlow,  McLaughlen,  Ord,  and  thirty  more, 
Blazing  for  once  in  feathers  and  in  gold. 
Old  Abe,  all  black,  bestrode  the  famous  steed. 
Grant's  pacing  black  —  and  sure  since  war  began 
No  host  of  war  had  such  Commander  seen! 

Loose-reined  he  let  the  steady  pacer  walk; 
Those  rail-like  legs,  that  forked  the  saddle,  thrust 
Prodigious  spattered  boots  anear  the  mud, 
Preposterous  his  parted  coat-tails  hung, 
In  negligence  his  lounging  body  stooped, 
Tipping  the  antic-solemn  stovepipe  hat; 
It  seemed  some  old-time  circuit  preacher  turned 
From  Grant  to  Meade  and  back  again  to  Grant, 
Attentive,  questioning,  pondering,  deep  concerned  — 
The  common  Civil  Power  directing  War. 

He,  travesty  of  every  point  of  horsemanship, 
They,  so  bedizened,  riding  soldier  stern  — 
The  contrast  past  all  telling  comical  — 
And  Father  Abraham  wholly  unaware! 

Too  much  by  far  for  soldier  gravity  — 

A  breeze  of  laughter  travelling  as  he  passed, 

Rose  sudden  to  a  gale  that  stormed  his  ear. 

The  President  turned  and  gazed  and  understood 
All  in  one  moment,  slightly  shook  his  head, 
Not  warningly,  but  with  a  cheerful  glee, 
And  sympathy  and  love,  as  if  he  spoke: 
You  scalawags,  you  scamps,  but  have  your  fun!" 
Pushed  up  the  stovepipe  hat,  and  all  around 
Bestowed  his  warming,  right  paternal  smile, 
As  if  his  soul  embraced  us  all  at  once. 

Then  strangely  fell  all  laughter.    Some  men  choked. 
And  some  grew  inarticulate  with  tears; 

7 


FATHER   ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

A  thousand  veteran  children  thrilled  as  one, 
And  not  a  man  of  all  the  throng  knew  why; 
Some  called  his  name,  some  blessed  his  holy  heart, 
And  then,  inspired  with  pentecostal  tongues, 
We  cheered  so  wildly  for  Old  Father  Abe 
That  all  the  bearded  generals  flamed  in  joy! 

What  was  the  miracle  ?   His  miracle. 
Was  Father  Abraham  just  a  son  of  Man, 
As  Jesus  seemed  to  common  Nazarenes  ? 

Shall  Father  Abraham  Lincoln  yet  prevail, 
And  his  Republic  come  to  stay  at  last  ? 
Kind  Age,  unenvious  Youth,  democracy. 
None  lower  than  the  first  in  comradeship, 
However  differing  in  mental  force. 
The  higher  intellect  set  free  to  Serve, 
All  undistracted  by  the  woeful  need 
To  grab  or  pander  lest  its  children  want; 
Old  trivial  gewgaws  of  the  peacock  past 
Smiled  to  the  nothingness  of  desuetude. 
With  strutful  Rank,  with  pinchbeck  Pageantry, 
With  apish  separative-cant  of  Class, 
With  inhumane  conventions,  all  designed 
To  sanctify  the  immemorial  robbery 
Of  Man  by  men;  with  mockful  mummeries. 
Called  Law,  to  save  the  one  perennial  Wrong  — 
That  fundamental  social  crime  which  fates 
All  babes  alike  to  Inequality, 
And  so  condemns  the  many  million  minds 
(That  might,  with  happier  nurture,  finely  serve) 
To  share,  through  life,  the  harmful  hates  or  scorns 
The  accursed  System  breeds,  which  still  most  hurts 
The  few  who  fancy  it  their  benefit, 
Shutting  them  lifelong  from  the  happiness 
Of  such  close  sympathy  with  all  their  kind 
As  feels  the  universal  God,  or  Soul, 
Alive  to  love  in  every  human  heart. 

8 


FATHER  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Was  it  for  this  our  Mother's  sons  were  slain  ? 
Shall  Father  Abraham  not  prevail  again  ? 

We  who  are  marching  to  the  small-flagged  graves 
We  earned  by  fight  to  free  our  fathers'  slaves, 
We  who  by  Lincoln's  hero  soul  were  sworn, 
We  go  more  sadly  toward  our  earthly  bourne 
To  join  our  comrade  host  of  long  ago, 
Since,  oh  so  clearly,  do  our  old  hearts  know 
We  shall  not  witness  what  we  longed  to  see  — 
Our  own  dear  children  minded  to  be  free. 

Why  let  democracy  be  flouted  down  ? 
Why  let  your  money-mongers  more  renown 
Their  golden  idol  than  the  Common  Weal, 
Flaunting  the  gains  of  liberty-to-steal. 
Fouling  the  promise  of  the  heights  we  trod 
With  Freedom's  sacrifice  to  Lincoln's  God  ? 

Was  it  for  this  he  wept  his  children  slain  ? 
Or  shall  our  Father's  spirit  rise  again  ? 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 


MARY  ARMISTEAD 

April,  1865 


A   VETERAN   CAVALRYMAN's  TALE 


Low  in  the  fertile  vale  by  Tunstall's  Run 
A  rainy  rifle  skirmish  closed  the  day. 

Beyond  the  April-swollen,  narrow  stream, 
Lee's  stubborn  rearguard  veteran  raggedies 
Lay  prone  amid  last  year's  tobacco  stalks. 
Shooting  hot  Enfields  straight  from  red-mud  pools, 
While  from  their  rear  four  angry  howitzers, 
High  set  on  Armistead's  Plantation  Hill, 
Flamed  shrieking  shell  o'erhead  across  the  bridge 
That  Custer  raged  to  seize  before  black  night 
Should  close  his  daylong  toil  in  mud  and  rain. 

Thrice  did  we  gallop  vainly  at  the  planks, 
Then  vainly  strove  on  foot  the  pass  to  win, 
Till  through  the  drizzling  dark  but  flashes  showed 
The  points  where  sullen  rifles  opposite  rang, 
And  back  we  straggled,  stumbling  up  the  slope 
Where  Union  buglers  shrilled  the  bivouac. 

Ninety  unanswering  voices  told  our  loss, 
While  silence  ruled  so  deep  we  heard  the  rain's 
Small  rataplan  on  ponchos  and  on  hats, 
Until  the  crackling  rail-fence  Company  fires 
Lighted  the  piney  length  of  Custer's  Ridge. 

That  night  John  Woolston  served  as  orderly, 
The  John  who  strokes  to-day  his  white  old  beard 

10 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

And  sees  himself,  scarce  downy  of  the  lips, 
Eyeing  young  long-haired  Custer  through  the  smoke 
Across  a  flaming  pyre,  that  steaming  slaves 
Of  Tunstall  fed  afresh  with  Tunstall  rails. 

Down  in  the  shrouded  vale  about  the  Run 
Three  score  of  boys  John  Woolston  knew  in  life 
Lay  scattered  round  an  old-hoed,  red-mud  field, 
Peaceful  with  scores  of  veteran  boys  in  gray, 
Whose  bodily  particles  were  resurrect 
As  corn  for  bread,  and  leaf  for  smokers'  pipes. 
Before  the  Americans  of  now  were  born 
To  share,  through  common-soldier  sacrifice. 
The  comrade  Union  of  the  States  to-day. 

A  rail-heap  seated  Custer  with  his  aide. 

Their  drow^sing  bugler  opposite  leaned  on  John, 

While  overhead  the  swaying  boughs  of  pine 

Creaked  in  an  upward-rushing  draught  of  warmth. 

And  from  our  solitary  surgeons'  tent 

Came  smothered  ecstasies  of  mortal  pain, 

And  in  the  outer  darkness  horses  stamped 

And  bit  and  squealed  and  enviously  eyed 

The  huddling  regiments  about  the  fires. 

Pipes  lit,  hats  slouched  to  fend  the  rain  and  glare. 

As  Woolston  watched  lean  Custer's  martial  face, 
It  seemed  the  hero  heard  not  flame  nor  bough, 
Nor  marked  the  groans,  nor  knew  at  what  he  stared, 
So  deep  intent  his  mind  ranged  o'er  the  Run 
And  up  the  opposite-sloping  Arm'stead  hill. 
As  questioning  if  the  murderous  howitzers 
Would  hold  the  bridge  at  dawn,  or  march  by  night. 
And  so,  perchance,  next  eve,  afar  repeat 
The  dusky  fight,  and  cost  him  ninety  more 
He  would  fain  range  about  the  field  of  fields 
Where  lion  Lee,  enringed,  must  stand  at  bay, 
Choosing  to  greatly  die,  or  greatlier  yield. 

II 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

At  last  he  shook  his  aide.    "Get  up!   Go  bring 
A  prisoner  here."   And  when  the  head-hurt  man 
In  butternut  stood  boldly  to  his  eyes, 
He  asked  one  word  alone:  "Your  general's  name?" 

'My  general's  name!"  stared  Butternut,  then  proud, 
As  't  were  a  cubit  added  to  his  height. 
He  spoke,  —  "My  general's  name  is  R.  E.  Lee!" 

*I  mean  who  fights  Lee's  rearguard  V  Custer  said, 
'Who  held  the  bridge  to-night.?   His  name  alone." 

And  then  the  bitter  man  in  butternut 
Smiled  ghastly  grim,  and  smacked  as  tasting  blood; 
'It's  General  Henry  Tunstall,  his  own  self, 
And  if  you  find  our  'Fighting  Tunce'  alive 
When  daylight  comes,  there  '11  be  red  hell  to  pay 
For  every  plank  that  spans  that  trifling  bridge." 

'Good  man!"  said  Custer.    "Spoke  right  soldierly! 
Here  —  take   this    cloak  —  to    save    your   wound    from 


ram 


And  gave  the  brave  the  poncho  that  he  wore. 

Then  up  flamed  Butternut:   "Say,  General, 

You  're  Yank,  and  yet,  by  God,  you  're  white  clean  through. 

And  so  I  kind  of  feel  to  tell  you  why 

Them  planks  will  cost  you  so  almighty  dear. 

You're  camped  to-night  on  'Fighting  Tunce's  '  land; 

Cross  yonder,  on  the  hill  his  guns  defend, 

Is  where  his  lady  lives,  his  promised  wife,  — 

God  bless  her  heart!  —  Miss  Mary  Armistead. 

She 's  there  herself  to-night  —  she  'd  never  run. 

Her  widowed  father  fell  at  Fredericksburg, 

Three  brothers  died  in  arms,  one  limps  with  Lee. 

Herself  has  worked  their  darkies  right  along 

Four  years,  to  raise  our  army  pork  and  pone, 

And  she  herself  not  twenty-four  to-day! 

12 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

Will  Tunstall  fight  for  her  ?    Say,  General, 

Your  heart  can  guess  what  hell  you  '11  face  at  day." 

"You're  right,  my  man,"  said  Custer.    "That  will  do." 
And  off  they  marched  the  ponchoed  prisoner. 

"By  heaven!"  spoke  Custer  then,  and  faced  his  aide, 
"I  know  why  Tunstall's  gunners  spared  the  bridge. 

It 's  ten  to  one  he  means  to  swarm  across, 

After  his  hungry  Johnnies  get  some  rest. 

To  strike  us  here  and  hard  before  the  dawm. 

His  heart  was  forged  in  fire  and  enterprise! 

His  bully-boys  will  back  his  wildest  dare! 

Lieutenant  —  pick  me  out  two  first-rate  men  — 

Morton  for  one,  if  'Praying  Mort'  's  alive  — 

Tell  them  I  go  myself  to  post  vedettes. 

Now  —  mind  —  I  want  a  pair  of  wideawakes.  — 

You,  Orderly,  go  saddle  up  my  bay." 

"I  want  to  go  with  Morton,"  blurted  John. 

"You!   Call  yourself  a  wideawake,  my  lad  ?" 

"Yes,  sir"  said  Woolston.  — 

"But  you're  just  a  boy." 

"Well,  General,  Uncle  Sam  enlisted  me 

For  man,  all  right."   Then  Custer  smiled,  and  mused. 
"Farm  boy?"  he  asked. — 

"Exactly  what  I  am." 
"All  right,"  he  said.    "If  once  I  see  he's  keen, 

A  likely  farm  boy's  just  the  man  for  me." 

When  back  his  aide  returned  the  General  spoke : 
"It's  barely  possible  we  march  to-night. 
You  '11  see  that  every  man  about  the  fires 
Splits  torch  stuff  plenty  from  the  pitchy  rails." 
And  with  the  words  he  reined  toward  Arm'stead's  Hill. 

13 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 


II 


Down  hill,  beyond  the  flares,  beyond  the  pines, 
Beyond  his  foothill  pickets,  through  the  rain, 
He  led  as  if  his  eyes  beheld  the  way; 
Yet  they,  who  followed  close  his  bay's  fast  walk 
By  sound  alone,  saw  not  their  horses'  heads, 
Saw  not  the  hand  held  up  to  blotch  the  gloom. 
No  breath  of  wind.    The  ear  heard  only  hoofs 
Splashing  and  squattering  in  the  puddled  field, 
Or  heard  the  saddle-leathers  scarcely  creak, 
Or  little  clanks  of  curbing  bit  and  chain. 

Scattered  about  whatever  way  they  trod 
Must  be  the  clay  that  marched  but  yesterday. 
And  nervously  John  listened,  lest  some  soul 
Faint  lingering  in  the  dark  immensity 
Might  call  its  longing  not  to  die  alone. 

Sudden  a  crash,  a  plunge,  a  kicking  horse, 
Then  "Praying  Morton"  whispering  cautiously: 
"A  post-hole.  General!    My  horse  is  done. 
His  off  fore-leg  is  broke,  as  sure  as  faith ! 
Oh,  what  a  dispensation  of  the  Lord  —  " 

"Hish-sh.    Save  the  rest!"  said  Custer.    "Broke  is  broke! 
Get  back  to  camp  whatever  way  you  can." 

"Me,  General!   What  use  to  post  the  boy? 
You,  Woolston,  you  get  back.    I  '11  take  your  horse." 

"Not  much,  you  won't,"  said  Woolston  angrily. 

And  Custer  chuckled  crisply  in  the  dark. 
"Enough,"  he  ordered.    "Morton,  get  you  back! 

Be  cautious  when  you  near  my  picket  post. 

Or  else  they'll  whang  to  hit  your  pious  voice, 

And  I  may  lose  a  first-rate  soldier  man." 

14 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

Then  Morton,  prayerful,  mild,  and  mollified: 
"The  merciful  man  would  end  a  beast  in  pain  — 
One  shot." 

"No,  too  much  noise.   You  get  right  back! 
Horses,  like  men,  must  bear  the  luck  of  war." 


Ill 

Again  the  plashing  hoofs  through  endless  drip, 

Until  the  solid  footing  of  their  beasts 

Bespoke  them  trampling  in  a  turnpike  road, 

And  Custer  reined  with :  "Hish-sh,  my  man  —  come  here. 

Now  listen."   Then  John's  ears  became  aware 

Of  small  articulations  in  the  dark. 

Queer  laughters,  as  of  countless  impish  glee. 

And  one  pervasive,  low,  incessant  hum, 

All  strange  till  Custer  spoke:   "You  hear  the  Run? 

All  right !   Now,  mind  exactly  what  I  say. 

But  no.    First  hold  my  horse.    I  '11  feel  the  bridge. 

Maybe  I'll  draw  their  fire;  but  stay  right  here." 

On  foot  he  went,  and  came,  so  stealthily 
John  could  not  hear  the  steps  ten  feet  away. 

"All  right!"    He  mounted.    "Not  one  plank  removed." 
Then,  communing  rather  with  himself  than  John : 

"No  picket  there!   It's  strange!    But  surely  Tunce 
Would  smash  the  bridge  unless  he  meant  to  cross 
And  rip  right  back  at  me  in  dark  or  dawn. 
Now,  private  —  mind  exactly  what  I  say; 
You'll  listen  here  for  trampers  on  the  bridge, 
And  if  you  hear  them  reach  the  mud  this  side, 
With  others  following  on  the  planks  behind. 
You  '11  get  right  back  —  stick  to  the  turnpike,  mind  — 
And  tell  my  challenging  road-guard  picket  post 
They  're  coming  strong.    That 's  all  you  've  got  to  do 
Unless — "  he  paused  —  "unless  some  negro  comes 
Bringing  the  news  they're  falling  back  on  Lee; 
Then  —  if  he 's  sure  —  you  '11  fire  four  carbine  shots 

15 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

Right  quick  —  and  stay  until  you  see  me  come. 
You  understand  ? " 

"I  do.    I'm  not  to  shoot 
In  case  they're  coming  on.    But  if  they're  off, 
I  '11  fire  four  shots  as  fast  as  I  can  pull." 

"That's  right.    Be  sure  you  keep  your  wits  awake. 
Listen  for  prowlers  —  both  your  ears  well  skinned." 

John  heard  the  spattering  bay's  fast-walking  hoofs 
Fainter  and  fainter  through  the  steady  pour, 
And  then  no  sound,  except  the  beating  rain's 
Small  pit-a-pat  on  poncho,  and  the  Run 
Drifting  its  babbling  through  the  blinding  mirk. 


IV 

How  long  he  sat,  no  guessing  in  the  slow 
Monotony  of  night,  that  never  changed 
Save  when  the  burdened  horse  replaced  his  hoofs, 
Or  seemed  to  raise  or  droop  his  weary  head, 
Or  when  some  shiver  shook  the  weary  boy. 
Though  sheltered  dry  from  aching  neck  to  spurs: 

A  shiver  at  the  dream  of  dead  men  nigh. 
Beaten  with  rain,  and  merging  with  the  mud, 
And  staring  up  with  open,  sightless  eyes 
That  served  as  little  cups  for  tiny  pools 
That  trickled  in  and  out  incessantly; 

A  shiver  at  the  thought  of  home  and  bed, 

And  mother  tucking  in  her  boy  at  night, 

And  how  she  'd  shiver  could  she  see  him  there  — 

Longing  more  sore  than  John  to  wrap  him  warm; 

A  shiver  from  the  tense  expectancy 
Of  warning  sounds,  while  yet  no  sound  he  heard 
Save  springtime  water  lapping  on  the  pier, 

i6 


•r  ftur 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 


Or  Itumbling  often  from  the  clayey  banks 
Lumps  that  splashed  lifelike  in  the  turbid  flood. 

His  aching  ears  were  strained  for  other  sounds, 

And  still  toward  Arm'stead's  Hill  they  ached  and  strained, 

While,  in  the  evening  fight  of  memory. 

Again  he  saw  the  broad  Plantation  House 

Whene'er  a  brassy  howitzer  spouted  flame, 

Suddenly  lighting  up  its  firing  men. 

Who  vanished  dim  again  in  streaking  rain; 

And  then,  once  more,  the  Enfields  in  the  vale 

Thrust  cores  of  fire,  until  some  lightning  piece 

Again  lit  all  the  Arm'stead  buildings  clear. 

From  visioning  swift  that  wide  Plantation  House 
John's  mind  went  peering  through  its  fancied  rooms. 
And  who  were  there  ?   And  did  they  sleep,  or  wake  ? 
Until  he  found  Miss  Mary  Armistead 
And  General  Henry  Tunstall  in  the  dream. 

It  seemed  those  lovers  could  not,  could  not  part, 
But  murmured  low  of  parting  in  the  dawn, 
Since  he  must  march  and  fight,  and  she  must  stay 
To  hold  the  home,  whatever  war  might  send  — 
And  they  might  never,  never  meet  again. 

So  good  she  looked,  described  by  Butternut's 
"God  bless  her  heart,"  and  he  so  soldier  bold 
In  "fire  and  enterprise,"  by  Custer's  words, — 
So  true  and  sorrowful  they  talked  in  dream. 
Of  Love  and  Life  that  walk  the  ways  of  Death,  — 
The  dreamer's  under  Up  went  quivering. 

Until  the  startled  horse  put  up  his  head 
And  stood,  John  knew,  stark  stiff"  with  listening 
To  that  kalatta-klank  beyond  the  Run, 
As  if  some  cowbell  clattered  far  away 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice,  to  cease  as  suddenly. 

17 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

Then  John,  once  more  keen  Yankee  soldier  boy, 
Gathered  his  rein,  half  threw  his  carbine  breech, 
Made  sure  again  of  cartridge  ready  there, 
Felt  for  the  flap  of  holster  at  his  thigh. 
Listened  alert  for  that  most  dubious  bell,  — 
Thinking  of  bushwhackers  in  campfire  tales 
Impressively  related  to  recruits; 

How,  in  deep  night,  some  lone  vedette  might  hear 

An  innocent-seeming  klatta-klatta-klank. 

And  never  dream  but  that  some  roaming  cow 

Ranged  through  the  covering  woodland  nigh  his  post, 

Till  —  suddenly  —  a  bullet  laid  him  low! 

Or,  perhaps,  guerillas  crept  before  the  bell, 

Their  footsteps  deadened  by  its  klatta-klank. 

Till,  rushing  in,  they  clubbed  the  youngster  down. 

So  "gobbling"  him  unheard,  a  prisoner, 

Then,  sneaking  through  the  gap,  on  sleeping  posts, 

They  killed,  and  killed,  and  killed  —  so  horridly 

That  green  recruities'  hairs  would  stand  on  end. 

John,  shrewdly  discounting  the  veteran  yarns, 
Yet  knew  full  well  that  klatta-klatta-klank, 
Which  came  again,  might  mean  the  enemy 
Intent  on  stratagem  to  search  the  dark. 
Tempting  some  shot  or  challenge  to  reveal 
If  any  Union  picket  held  the  bridge. 
Or  else  the  steady-coming,  clanging  knell 
Might  signify  some  party  far  advanced, 
Creeping  all  noiselessly,  and  listening  keen 
For  any  sound  of  Custer,  horse  or  man. 

Even  it  might  be  that  the  ridgy  road 
Ten  yards,  or  five,  or  three  from  where  he  sat. 
Concealed  some  foeman  hungry  for  a  move 
That  might  betray  precisely  where  their  rush 
Should  be,  to  seize  his  tightened  bridle-rein. 
Or  grasp  the  poncho's  skirt  to  pull  him  down. 

i8 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

John  half  indined  to  lift  the  neck-yoke  off 
And  lay  the  armless  cloak  on  saddle-bow, 
Lest  it  encumber  him  in  sudden  fight, 
Or  give  the  foremost  foe  a  strangling  hold. 
Yet  sat  he  motionless,  since  such  a  sound 
As  slicking  glaze  might  guide  an  enemy. 
And  still  the  klatta-klatta-klank  came  on. 

It  surely  neared  the  bridge!   Yet  John  sat  still, 
With  Custer's  orders  clearly  in  his  brain. 
Waiting  to  learn  the  meaning  of  the  thing. 
It  trod  the  planks.    It  moved  w^ith  solid  hoofs. 
Hoofs  that  declared  to  farm-bred  Woolston's  ear 
Most  unmistakably  an  actual  cov^! 
But  then!   Oh,  mystery!    For  rolling  vpheels 
Rumbled  upon  the  planking  of  the  Run! 

As  up  went  Woolston's  horse's  head  asnort. 
Upon  the  bridge  the  other  beast  stood  still. 
The  clanking  ceased.    Again  no  mortal  sound 
Blent  with  the  tittering  tumult  of  the  stream. 
Until  a  clear  young  voice  of  lady  tone 
Inquired  in  startled  accents,  —  "Who  goes  there?" 
Yet  John,  in  utter  wonder,  spoke  no  word. 
"If  there's  a  Yankee  cavalry  picket  there," 
The  voice  proclaimed,  "  I  wish  to  pass  the  line." 
And  still  the  Yankee  knew  not  what  to  say. 
Since  Custer's  orders  covered  not  the  case, 
And  since,  alas,  the  wondrous  lady  voice 
Might  possibly  denote  some  stratagem. 
And  yet  —  suppose  't  was  only  just  a  girl! 
John  sickened  with  a  sense  of  foolishness. 

"Go  on,"  she  cried,  and  seemed  to  slap  her  beast, 
Which  moved  some  doubtful  steps,  and  stopped  again. 
Then  calmly  scornful  came  the  lady  tones :  — 

"Oh,  Mister  Yankee  picket,  have  no  fear 
To  speak  right  up.   No  dangerous  man  am  I. 

19 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

Only  a  woman.    And  she 's  got  no  gun, 

No  pistol,  bayonet,  knife,  or  anything. 

And  all  she  asks  is  just  to  pass  your  line, 

A  prisoner  if  you  like."    But  there  she  broke. 

Or  choked,  and  wailed,   "O  God,  it's  life  or  death! 

Oh,  soldier,  soldier,  let  me  pass  the  line." 

So  John,  half  desperate,  called,  "Young  lady,  come. 
I  don't  care  what  the  orders  are.    Come  on." 

"Get  up,"  she  slapped  again.    But  then  she  called:  — 
"My  cow  won't  move!    She  sees  you,  I  suppose. 

All  armed  and  threatening  in  the  middle  road. 

Please  go  away.    Or  ride  a  bit  aside; 

Perhaps  then  she'll  come.    Yes,  now  she  moves  along. 

You  '11  pass  me  through  ?  —  But  are  there  surgeons  there 

Where,  hours  ago,  I  saw  your  camplires  glow  ? 

If  not,  I  may  as  well  turn  back  again." 

"No  need,"  said  John.    "We've  got  a  surgeon  there. 
But  what 's  the  trouble.  Miss  ?   Yourself  been  hurt  ? " 

"The  trouble  is  I've  got  a  soldier  here 
With  desperate  wounds  —  if  still  alive  he  be. 
Oh,  help  me  save  him."    And  she  broke  again. 

"Why,  Miss,"  said  Woolston,  melting  at  the  heart, 
"Was  there  no  surgeon  on  the  Arm'stead  Hill 

To  help  your  wounded  live  ?  " 

"No,  none,"  she  said, 
"No  man  remained.    At  eve  the  negroes  fled. 

Or  followed  close  behind  the  wagon  train 

He  urged,  with  every  soldier,  back  toward  Lee. 

We  two  were  left  alone.    I  thought  you  'd  come. 

For  hours  and  hours  I  waited,  all  in  vain. 

His  life  was  flowing  fast.    One  chance  remained. 

We  women  placed  him  in  our  best  barouche. 

The  only  vehicle  our  rearguard  spared. 

20 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

Alone  I  hitched  this  cow,  the  only  beast 

I  kept  from  rations  for  our  starving  men. 

I  led  her  here.    Oh,  soldier,  help  me  soon 

To  pass  your  lines,  and  reach  a  surgeon's  care." 

Then  Custer's  orders  flashed  again  to  John;  — 
'Hold  hard  one  moment,  Miss,  I've  got  to  shoot." 

The  carbine  rang.  "Thank  God,  that's  done,"  said  John. 
'We'll  wait  right  here.    A  surgeon's  sure  to  come 

With  Custer's  march,  for  march  I  guess  he  will. 

He'll  turn  you  round,  I  think,  and  see  you  home. 

I  s'pose  your  name  's  Miss  Mary  Armistead  ? 

I  hope  that 's  not  your  General  wounded  there." 

She  could  but  choke,  or  weep,  and  spoke  no  word. 

It  seemed  long  hours  they  waited  silently. 
Save  once  John  heard  the  hidden  carriage  creak, 
And  guessed  she  rose  beside  the  dying  man 
Beneath  the  drumlike  pattering,  sheltering  hood. 

At  last,  the  bugles  blared  on  Custer's  Ridge. 
Then,  far  away,  a  lengthening  stream  of  flare 
Came  round  the  distant,  curtaining  screen  of  pines, 
And  down  the  hill  the  torches,  borne  on  high 
By  fifteen  hundred  horsemen,  formed  a  slope 
Of  flame  that  moved  behind  the  bugles'  call, 
Till  on  the  level  road  a  fiery  front 
Tossing,  yet  solid-seeming,  walked  along. 
And  in  the  van  rode  Custer,  beardless,  tall. 
His  long  hair  dabbled  in  the  streaming  rain. 

John  rode  to  meet  him.    There  he  called  the  halt, 
And  came,  with  twenty  torches,  round  the  chaise. 

Then  first  they  saw  Miss  Mary  Armistead, 
Her  honorable,  fearless,  lifted  eyes 
Gazing  on  Custer's  bare  and  bended  head. 
While  General  Henry  Tunstall's  countenance, 

21 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

Supported  close  within  her  sheltering  arm, 
Leaned  unto  hers  in  pallid  soldier  death. 
'Madam,"  said  Custer,  "would  that  I  had  known 
The  bravest  of  the  brave  lay  needing  aid. 
Lady,  the  great  heroic  name  he  won 
Held  me  from  marching  onward  to  your  hill, 
Held  me  expecting  from  him  night  attack. 
Till  now  in  vain  we  bring  a  surgeon's  help,  — 
And  words  are  useless.   Yet  again  I  say  — 
Because  a  soldier's  heart  compels  the  due  — 
He  lived  the  bravest  of  the  bravest  brave 
That  ever  faced  the  odds  of  mighty  war. 
May  God  sustain  yourself  for  years  and  years 
The  living  shrine  of  Tunstall's  memory." 

She  bowed  her  noble  head,  but  answered  naught. 

Then  past  the  chariot  streamed  our  wondering  men 

Behind  tall  Custer  in  the  foremost  front, 

Trampling  as  thunder  on  the  bridging  planks, 

Their  torches  gleaming  on  the  swirling  Run; 

A  tossing,  swaying  column  o'er  the  flat, 

A  fiery  slope  of  fours  abreast  the  hill. 

And  on,  unresting  on,  through  night  and  rain, 

Remorseless,  urgent,  yet  most  merciful. 

Because  the  Nation's  life  demanded  war. 

Relentless,  hurrying  swift  to  force  an  end, 

And  banish  night,  and  bring  a  peaceful  dawn. 

But  old  John  Woolston  sees  across  the  years, 
Beneath  the  black,  cavernous  carriage  hood. 
Flaring  in  torchlight,  Tunstall's  face  of  death 
Beside  a  lovely,  living,  haloed  face. 
Heroic,  calm,  ineffably  composed 
With  pride  unconquerable  in  valiant  deeds. 
With  trust  in  God  our  Lord  unspeakable  — 
The  sainted  Woman  of  the  Perished  Cause, 
The  chastened  soul  of  that  Confederacy 

22 


MARY   ARMISTEAD 

Which  marches  on,  no  less  than  John  Brown's  soul, 
Inspiring,  caUing  on  the  Nation's  heart, 
Urging  it  dauntlessly  to  front  stark  death 
For  what  ideals  the  Nation's  heart  holds  true. 

Straight  rain  streaks  downward  through  the  torches'  flare. 
And  solemn  through  the  ancient  darkness  sound 
The  small,  bewildered,  lingering,  million  tones 
Of  atoms  streaming  to  the  eternal  sea. 


23 


WHEN   LINCOLN   DIED 


WHEN  LINCOLN  DIED 

Already  Appomattox  day 
Seemed  to  our  hearts  an  age  away, 
Although  the  April-blossomed  trees 
Were  droning  with  the  very  bees 
That  bumbled  round  the  conference 
Where  Lee  resigned  his  long  defence, 
And  Grant's  new  gentleness  subdued 
The  iron  Southern  fortitude. 

From  smouldering  leaves  the  smoky  smell 

Wreathed  round  Virginian  fields  a  spell 

Of  homely  aromatic  haze, 

So  like  New  Hampshire  springtime  days 

About  the  slopes  of  Moosilauke 

It  numbed  my  homesick  heart  to  talk, 

And  when  the  bobohnks  trilled  "Rejoice!" 

My  comrade  could  not  trust  his  voice. 

We  were  two  cavalrymen  assigned 
To  safeguard  Pinckney  womankind, 
Whose  darkies  rambled  Lord  knows  where 
In  some  persuasion  that  they  were 
Thenceforth,  in  ease,  at  public  charge 
To  live  as  gentlemen  at  large  — 
A  purpose  which,  they  'd  heard,  the  war 
Was  made  by  "Massa  Linkum"  for. 

The  pillared  mansion,  battle-wrecked, 
Yet  stood  with  ivied  front  erect. 
Its  mossy  gables,  shell-fire-torn. 
Were  still  in  lordliness  upborne 
Above  the  neighboring  barns,  well  stored 
With  war-time's  rich  tobacco  hoard; 
But  on  the  place,  for  food,  was  naught 
Save  what  our  commissary  brought 

24 


WHEN   LINCOLN   DIED 

To  keep  the  planter's  folk  alive 
Till  Colonel  Pinckney  might  arrive 
Paroled  from  northward,  if  his  head 
Lay  not  among  the  prisoner  dead. 

We'd  captured  him  ten  days  before, 
When  Richard  Ewell's  veteran  corps, 
Half-naked,  starving,  fought  amain 
To  save  their  dwindling  wagon-train. 
Since  they  were  weak  and  we  were  strong, 
The  battle  was  not  overlong. 
Again  I  see  the  prisoners  stare 
Exultant  at  the  orange  glare 
Of  sunlit  flame  they  saw  aspire 
Up  from  the  train  they  gave  to  fire. 
They'd  shred  apart  their  hero  flags 
To  share  the  silk  as  heart-worn  rags. 
The  trampled  field  was  strewn  about 
With  wreckage  of  the  closing  rout  — 
Their  dead,  their  wounded,  rifles  broke. 
Their  mules  and  horses  slain  in  yoke; 
Their  torn-up  records,  widely  spread, 
Fluttered  around  the  muddy  dead  — 
So  bitter  did  their  hearts  condemn 
To  ruin  all  we  took  with  them. 

Ten  days  before!   The  war  was  past. 
The  Union  saved,  Peace  come  at  last. 
And  Father  Abraham's  words  of  balm 
Gentling  the  war-worn  States  to  calm. 
Of  all  the  miracles  he  wrought 
That  was  the  sweetest.    Men  who'd  fought 
So  long  they'd  learned  to  think  in  hate. 
And  savor  blood  when  bread  they  ate. 
And  hear  their  buried  comrades  wail. 
How  long,  O  Lord,  doth  wrong  prevail  ? 
List'ning  alike,  in  blue  or  gray, 
Felt  war's  wild  passions  soothed  away. 

25 


WHEN   LINCOLN   DIED 

By  homely  touches  in  the  air 

That  morning  was  so  sweet  and  rare 

That  Father  Abraham's  soul  serene 

Seemed  brooding  over  all  the  scene; 

And  when  we  found  the  plough,  I  guess 

We  were  so  tired  of  idleness 

Our  farmer  fingers  yearned  to  hold 

The  handles,  and  to  sense  the  mould 

Turning  the  earth  behind  the  knife. 

Jim  gladdened  as  with  freshened  life;  — 
'Say,  John,"  said  he,  "I'm  feeling  beat 
To  know  what  these  good  folks  will  eat 
When  you  and  I  are  gone.    Next  fall 
They  're  sure  to  have  no  crop  at  all. 
All  their  tobacco's  confiscate 
By  Washington  —  and  what  a  state 
Of  poverty  they  're  bound  to  see ! 
Say,  buddy,  what  if  you  and  me 
Just  hitch  our  cavalry  horses  now 
Up  to  this  blamed  Virginia  plough. 
And  run  some  furrows  through  the  field  ? 
With  commissary  seed  they  'd  yield 
A  reasonable  crop  of  corn." 
'They  will,"  said  I,  "as  sure's  you're  born!" 

Quickly  we  rigged,  with  rope  and  straps 
And  saddle  leathers  —  well,  perhaps 
The  Yankiest  harness  ever  planned 
To  haul  a  plough  through  farming  land. 
It  made  us  kind  of  happy,  too. 
Feeling  like  Father  Abraham  knew. 

The  Pinckney  place  stood  on  a  rise. 
And  when  we'd  turned  an  end,  our  eyes 
Would  see  the  mansion  war  had  wrecked,  — 
Such  desolation!   I  suspect 
The  women's  hearts  were  mourning  sore; 

26 


WHEN   LINCOLN   DIED 

But  not  one  tear  we  saw  —  they  bore 
Composed  the  fortune  fate  had  sent  — 
But,  O  dear  Lord,  how  still  they  went! 
I  've  seen  such  quiet  in  a  shroud, 
Inscrutably  resigned  and  proud. 

Yet,  when  we  'd  worked  an  hour  or  two, 
And  plain  was  what  we  meant  to  do, 
Mother  and  daughters  came  kind-eyed,  — 
'Soldiers  —  my  soldier  husband's  pride 
Will  be  to  thank  you  well  —  till  then 
We  call  you  friendly,  helpful  men  —  " 
It  seemed  she  stopped  for  fear  of  tears. 
She  turned  —  they  went  —  Oh,  long  the  years 
Gone  by  since  that  brave  lady  spoke  — 
And  yet  I  hear  the  voice  that  broke. 

We  watched  them  climb  the  lilac  hill. 
Again  the  spring  grew  strangely  still 
Ere,  far  upon  the  turnpike  road. 
Across  a  clattering  bridge,  where  flowed 
Through  sand  the  stream  of  Pinckney  Run, 
We  heard  the  galloping  of  one 
Who,  hidden  by  the  higher  ground. 
Pounded  as  fast  as  horse  could  pound. 
Then  —  all  again  was  still  as  death  — 
Till  up  the  slope,  with  laboring  breath, 
A  white  steed  rose  —  his  rider  gray 
Spurring  like  mad  his  staggering  way. 

The  man  was  old  and  tall  and  white. 
His  glooming  eyes  looked  dead  to  light, 
He  rode  with  such  a  fateful  air 
I  felt  a  coldness  thrill  my  hair, 
He  rode  as  one  hard  hit  rides  out 
In  horror  from  some  battle  rout. 
Bearing  a  cry  for  instant  aid  — 
That  aspect  made  my  heart  afraid. 

27 


WHEN   LINCOLN   DIED 

The  death-like  rider  drew  no  rein, 
Nor  seemed  to  note  us  on  the  plain, 
Nor  seemed  to  know  how  weak  in  stride 
His  horse  strove  up  the  long  hillside; 
When  down  it  lurched,  on  foot  the  man 
Up  through  the  fringing  lilacs  ran, 
His  left  hand  clutching  empty  air 
As  if  his  sabre  still  hung  there. 

'T  was  plain  as  day  that  human  blast 

Was  Colonel  Pinckney  home  at  last, 

And  we  were  free,  since  ordered  so 

That  with  his  coming  we  might  go; 

Yet  on  we  ploughed  —  the  sun  swung  high, 

Quiet  the  earth  and  blue  the  sky  — 

Silent  we  wrought,  as  men  who  wait 

Some  half-imagined  stroke  of  fate. 

While  through  the  trembling  shine  came  knells 

Tolling  from  far-off  Lynchburg  bells. 

The  solemn,  thrilling  sounds  of  gloom 
Bore  portents  of  tremendous  doom, 
On  smoky  zephyrs  drifted  by 
Shadows  of  hosts  in  charging  cry. 
In  fields  where  silence  ruled  profound 
Growling  musketry  echoed  round. 
Pale  phantom  ranks  did  starkly  pass 
Invisible  across  the  grass. 
Flags  ghosted  wild  in  powder  fume 
Till,  miracled  in  memory's  room. 
Rang  the  old  regiment's  rousing  cheer 
For  Father  Abraham,  smiling  queer. 

'T  was  when  we  turned  a  furrow's  end 
We  saw  a  martial  form  descend 
From  Mansion  Hill  the  lilac  way. 
Till  in  our  field  the  veteran  gray 
Stood  tall  and  straight  as  at  parade, 

28 


WHEN   LINCOLN    DIED 

And  yet  as  one  with  soul  dismayed. 
That  hvine  emblem  of  the  South 
Faced  us  unblenching,  though  his  mouth 
So  quivered  with  the  spoken  word 
It  seemed  a  tortured  heart  we  heard ;  — 
'Soldiers"  —  he  eyed  us  nobly  when 
We  stood  to  "attention "  —  "Soldiers  —  merj, 
For  this  good  work  my  thanks  are  due  — 
But  —  men  —  O  God  —  men,  if  you  knew, 
Your  kindly  hands  had  shunned  the  plough  — 
For  hell  comes  up  between  us  now!  — 
Oh,  sweet  was  peace  —  but  gone  is  peace  — 
Murder  and  hate  have  fresh  release!  — 
The  deed  be  on  the  assassin's  head!  — 
Men  —  Abraham  Lincoln  'j-  lying  dead  ! ' 

He  steadied  then  —  he  told  us  through 
All  of  the  tale  that  Lynchburg  knew, 
While  dumbly  raged  my  anguished  heart 
With  woe  from  pity  wrenched  apart, 
For,  in  the  fresh  red  furrow,  bled 
'T  wixt  us  and  him  the  martyred  dead. 

That  precious  crimson  ran  so  fast 
It  merged  in  tinge  with  battles  past,  — 
Hatcher's,  Five  Forks,  The  Wilderness, 
The  Bloody  Angle's  maddened  stress; 
Down  Cemetery  Hill  there  poured 
Torrents  that  stormed  to  Kelly's  Ford, 
And  twice  Manassas  flung  its  flood 
To  swell  the  four  years'  tide  of  blood, 
And  Sumter  blazed,  and  Ellsworth  fell. 
While  memory  flashed  its  gleams  of  hell. 

The  colonel's  staring  eyes  declared 
In  visions  wild  as  ours  he  shared, 
Until  —  dear  Christ  —  with  Thine  was  blent 
The  death-transfigured  President. 

29 


WHEN   LINCOLN   DIED 

Strange  —  strange  —  the  crown  of  thorns  he  wore, 

His  outspread  hands  were  pierced  sore, 

And  down  his  old  black  coat  a  tide 

Flowed  from  the  javelin-wounded  side; 

Yet  't  was  his  homely  self  there  stood. 

And  gently  smiled  across  the  blood, 

And  changed  the  mystic  stream  to  tears 

That  swept  afar  the  angry  years, 

And  flung  me  down  as  falls  a  child 

Whose  heart  breaks  out  in  weeping  wild. 

Yet  in  that  field  we  ploughed  no  more, 
We  shunned  the  open  Southern  door. 
We  saddled  up,  we  rode  away,  — 
It 's  that  that  troubles  me  to-day. 

Full  thirty  years  to  dust  were  turned 
Before  my  pondering  soul  had  learned 
The  blended  vision  there  was  sent 
In  sign  that  our  Beloved  meant;  — 

Children  who  wrought  so  mild  my  will. 
Plough  the  long  furrow  kindly  still, 
'T  is  sweet  the  Father  s  work  to  see 
Done  for  the  memory  of  me. 


30 


THE   VISION   AT   SHILOH 

THE  VISION  AT  SHILOH 

(a  veteran's  death-bed  story) 

Shrouded  on  Shiloh  field  in  night  and  rain, 
This  body  rested  from  the  first's  day's  fight; 
Fallen  face  down,  both  hands  on  rifle  clutched, 
A  Shape  of  sprawling  members,  blank  of  thought 
As  was  the  April  mud  in  which  it  lay. 

Comrade,  you  deem  that  I  shall  surely  lie 
Torpid,  forgetful,  nevermore  to  march 
After  the  flush  of  morning  pales  in  day; 
But  I  remember  how  I  rose  again 
From  Shiloh  field  to  march  three  mighty  years, 
Until  mine  eyes  beheld  in  Richmond  streets 
Our  Father  Abraham,  homely  conqueror. 
So  Son-of-Manlike,  fashioned  mild  and  meek, 
Averse  from  triumph,  close  to  common  men, 
Chief  of  a  Nation  mercifully  strong. 

In  boyhood  many  a  time  I  'd  seen  his  face, 
Knew  well  the  accents  of  his  voice  serene. 
Loved  the  kind  twinkle  of  his  sad-eyed  smile, 
Yet  never  once  beheld  him  save  with  awe. 
For  that  mysterious  sense  of  unity 
With  the  Eternal  Fortitude,  which  flowed 
As  from  his  gaze  into  my  yearning  heart. 

The  peace  our  Father's  four  years'  Calvary  wrought 
Has  bustled  through  his  huge  two-oceaned  land 
How  busily  since  Shiloh's  blood-drenched  field 
Gave  up  from  death  this  body  men  called  me.  — 
Oh,  paths  of  peace  were,  truly,  pleasant  ways! 
The  kindliest  Nation  earth  has  ever  known 
Gave  to  their  veterans  grateful  preference 
In  every  labor,  mart,  and  council  hall, 

31 


THE   VISION   AT   SHILOH 

Which  nobleness  shall  a  thousand  fold  be  paid 
By  soldier  hearts  in  every  future  Age. 

Myself  was  one  whom  Fortune  favored  much, 

Children  and  children's  children,  troops  of  friends 

Have  cheered  this  firelit  chamber  silken  hung 

Where  now  I  rest  me  easy  at  the  last, 

In  confidence  that  Shiloh's  miracle 

Of  Vision  and  of  Song  did  true  forecast 

Repose  in  bliss  surpassing  mortal  dream. 

The  night  outside  is  black  as  Shiloh's  night, 

Save  for  electric-litten  streaks  of  rain; 

My  dripping  eaves  declare  November's  shower 

Falling  as  fast  as  early  April's  did 

When  first  this  time-worn  body  grew  aware 

Of  Death's  reluctant  yielding  to  the  Soul. 

Utter  oblivion  could  not  be  from  Sleep 
While  battle  roared,  and  dreaded  evening  fell, 
And  sullen  foemen  kept  the  plain  unsearched. 
And  rain  tempestuous  stormed  to  midnight's  gloom. 

Oh,  let  me  talk !    I  've  seldom  told  the  tale, 
And  I  care  nothing  if  my  strength  be  strained. 
Our  generation  ever  held  that  Strength 
Was  given  only  that  it  might  be  tried. 
What  matters  it  if  so  my  term  of  hours 
Ere  second  resurrection  be  forestalled  ? 

First  did  this  body  dimly  sense  its  form 
As  something  vaguely  unified  in  Space; 
Powerless,  motionless,  unaware  of  aught 
Save  merely  numbness,  while  a  smothering  nose 
And  mumbling  lips  and  tongue  mechanical 
Strove  for  they  knew  not  what,  which  was  to  breathe 
Strove  as  by  instinct  uncontrolled  of  Mind, 
Which  nowise  ordered  hands  enormous-like 

32 


THE    VISION   AT   SHILOH 

To  fumble  baffled  till  they  slowly  learned 
The  fast-clutched  rifle  which  bewildered  them 
Was  such  a  thing  as  fingers  could  let  go. 

Then,  to  restore  the  breath,  the  forearms  come 
Beneath  the  brow,  and  raised  the  face  from  mud; 
Yet  all  was  numbness,  but  for  tiny  blows 
Patting  behind  the  neck,  and  prankily 
Creeping  at  random  down  the  cheeks  and  hair. 
I  did  not  guess  them  pellets  of  cold  rain 
Until  a  stab  came  up  as  from  the  ground 
Into  my  wounded  breast.    Then  Mind  awoke 
To  wetness,  night,  and  all  the  agonies 
That  dogged  resolution  rose  to  bear. 

Shocked  Memory  cried.  That  stroke  one  instant  past 
Was  shrapnel  shell  !   The  reasoning  power  replied, 
It  laid  the  body  dead  on  Shiloh  field. 
Then  staunch  the  Soul,  /  live  —  and  God  is  here. 

Visions  came  lightning-quick,  clear,  unconfused,  — 

The  City  tumult  in  my  childish  ears, 

Our  tremulous  Church  at  Sumter's  bulletin, 

Me  naked  in  the  cold  recruiting  room 

Stripped  to  the  hurrying  Doctor's  callous  test;  — 

All  the  innumerable  recollections  flashed 

On  to  that  battle-moment  when  my  chum 

Charging  beside  me  on  red  Shiloh  field 

Gasped  out,  "Oh,  John,"  clutched  horribly  his  throat, 

Frowned  on  his  bloodied  hands,  stared  wild  at  me 

Who,  in  that  moment,  felt  the  stroke,  and  fell. 

Was  Harry  nigh  ?    I  groped  in  puddled  grass 

Seeking  his  comrade  corpse,  and  sought  in  vain. 

The  wound  might  not  have  killed  him !    Could  I  turn, 

And  so  gain  ground  to  search  a  little  more  ? 

Yes  —  but  the  agony!   Yet  turn  I  did. 

And,  groping  farther,  felt  a  little  bush. 

33 


THE   VISION   AT   SHILOH 

It  seemed  more  friendly  to  the  finger  hold 
Than  emptiness,  or  muddy  earth,  or  grass; 
So  there  I  lay,  face  up,  in  absolute  night 
Whose  stillness  deepened  with  the  lessening  rain. 

How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  the  darkness  held! 
Despite  the  feverish  wound  my  body  chilled, 
And  oft  my  desperate  fingers  strove  to  loose 
The  soaking  blanket  roll  which  trenched  my  back 
As  if  it  lay  diagonal  on  a  ridge. 

It  may  be  true  that  slight  delirium  touched 
My  brain  that  night,  for  when  a  little  wind 
Came  rustling  through  the  bushes  of  the  plain. 
And  drizzling  ceased,  how  clearly  my  closed  eyes 
Could  see  within  the  house  where  I  was  born! 

There  sister  voices  conned  their  lesson  books. 
And  Mother's  dress  was  trailing  on  the  stair 
As  she  were  coming  up  to  comfort  me. 
While  in  my  heart  an  expectation  flowed 
Of  some  inexplicable  joy  anear. 
Angelic,  shining-robed,  austerely  fair. 

With  that  I  opened  wondering  eyes  —  and  Lo 
The  heavenly  host  of  stars  o'er  Shiloh  field ! 

And  oh  the  glory  of  them,  and  the  peace, 
The  promise,  the  ethereal  hope  renewed! 
Up  rose  my  soul,  supreme  past  bodily  grief, 
To  rest  enraptured  as  of  Heaven  assured. 

In  that  blest  trance  my  gaze  became  intent 
On  beams  I  deemed  at  first  a  rising  moon, 
Until  mine  eyes  conceived  the  luminous  space 
Haloed  a  tall  and  human-seeming  Form, 
Of  countenance  uplifted  unto  God, 
And  palms  breast-clasped  as  if  entreating  Him. 

34 


THE   VISION   AT   SHILOH 

In  vain  my  straining  sight  sought  certainty 
Whose  was  the  sorrowing  figure  which  I  dreamed 
To  wear  a  visage  as  if  Christ  were  come 
In  pity  for  the  carnage  of  that  plain. 

It  seemed  that  nigh  that  Presence  rose  a  voice 
Most  heavenly  pure  of  note,  and  manlike  strong; 
**  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear,"  it  sang 
Triumphantly,  ''To  mansions  in  the  skies, 
Lifting  the  hymn  in  exultation  high 
Till  other  voices  took  it  —  wounded  men 
Lying,  like  me,  in  pain  and  close  to  death; 
Myself  chimed  in,  while  all  about  me  rang 
The  soldier  chanting  of  that  prostrate  host, 
Northern  and  Southern,  one  united  choir 
Solemnly  glad  in  Man's  supernal  dream.  ^ 

Comrade,  when  that  high  service  of  great  song 
Died  down,  there  was  no  semblance  of  a  moon! 
And  if  indeed  one  rode  the  April  sky 
That  wonder-night,  I  never  yet  have  learned. 

But  I  do  know  most  surely  this  strange  thing,  — 
That  when,  in  Richmond,  Father  Abraham, 
After  three  years  grassed  newly  Shiloh  plain, 
Beheld  my  veteran  men  relieve  his  guard, 
I  saw  the  triumph  in  my  countenance 
Did  grieve  afresh  his  sad  and  infinite  eyes 
Which  gazed  with  gentle  meaning  into  mine 
The  while  his  silent  lips  seemed  fashioning 
For  me  alone,  "Remember  Shiloh  Choir." 

Then  clear  I  knew  his  brooding  tenderness 
Bewailed  our  vanquished  brethren,  waked  from  years 
Of  dreadful  dream  he  was  their  enemy; 

*  The  singing  of  "  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear  "  by  the  wounded  of  Shiloh, 
at  night,  is  perfectly  authenticated. 

35 


THE   VISION   AT   SHILOH 

The  exultation  vanished  from  my  heart, 

A  choking  pity  took  me  in  the  throat, 

And  forth  I  rushed  to  join  the  ranks  of  Blue 

Fighting,  as  saviours,  flames  in  Richmond  Town, 

The  while  his  kindly  look  seemed  blessing  me. 

Now  in  the  contemplation  of  his  eyes 
I  lie  content  as  stretched  on  Shiloh  field. 
Dreaming  triumphant,  waiting  for  the  dawn. 

There  it  broke  fair,  till  shattering  musketry 

And  cheers  of  charging  Blue  right  onward  swept 

So  far,  it  seemed  that  utter  silence  fell, 

And  I  lay  waiting  very  peacefully. 

As  now,  for  friendly  hands  to  bear  me  home. 


36 


PARABLES 
PARABLES 

GRANDFATHER  TO   GRANDSON 

And  did  you  think  the  war  was  past 
When  the  long  cannonade  was  done, 
And  all  we  homebound  soldiers  cast 
Hope's  glances  on  the  blessing  sun  ? 

I  tell  you  that  the  war  shall  last 

Till  every  citadel  be  won. 

And  did  you  think  was  Lincoln  dead 
Because  his  mouldering  length  of  clay 
Lifts  nevermore  the  brooding  head 
To  eye  the  slowly  brightening  day  ? 
I  tell  you  that  his  blood  was  shed 
That  he  might,  living,  lead  the  way. 

And  did  you  think  he  does  not  lead 
Because  the  chains  he  broke  of  yore 
Maddened  scarce  less  than  those  that  Need 
Clanks  terribly  nigh  Dives'  door  ? 

I  tell  you  Dives  shall  be  freed 

From  dread  when  Lincoln  leads  no  more. 

And  did  you  think  that  this  is  Peace, 
When  every  rose  in  Pleasure's  hair 
Shakes  direful  as  some  blood-red  piece 
Torn  from  the  heart  of  hot  despair  ? 
I  tell  you  Pleasure's  just  release 
Comes  when  her  roses  all  shall  share. 

And  did  you  think  Columbians  see 
As  nothing  but  a  sounding  phrase 
The  "////  men  ivcre  created  free 
And  equal "  of  the  Fathers'  days  ? 
37 


PARABLES 

I  tell  you  their  sincerest  glee 
Laughs  over  all  whom  that  dismays. 

And  did  you  think  you  could  desist 
From  service  in  the  changeful  fight, 
Or  that  your  weapons  need  assist 
Neither  the  arms  of  Wrong  nor  Right  ? 
I  tell  you  All  must  here  enlist, 
There  is  no  neutral  and  no  flight. 


38 


POEMS   OF  THE   WORLD-WIDE 
BROTHERHOOD 


THE  MANY-MANSIONED  HOUSE 

There  looms,  upon  the  enormous  round 

Where  nations  come  and  nations  go, 
A  many-mansioned  house,  whose  bound 

Ranges  so  wide  that  none  may  know 
Its  temperate  lands  of  corn  and  vine, 

Its  solitudes  of  Arctic  gloom, 
Its  wealth  of  forest,  plain,  and  mine, 

Its  jungle  world  of  tropic  bloom. 
Yet  so  its  architects  devise 

That  still  its  boundary  walls  extend, 
And  still  its  guardian  forts  arise. 

And  still  its  builders  see  no  end 
Of  plan,  or  labor,  or  the  call 

By  which  the  Master  of  their  Fate 
Urges  to  lay  the  advancing  wall 

Of  Law  beyond  the  farthest  gate. 

The  mortar  oft  is  red  with  blood 

Of  men  within  and  men  without, 
For  hate's  incessant  storm  and  flood 

Rage  round  each  uttermost  redoubt. 
And  bullets  sing,  and  shrieks  are  loud, 

And  bordering  voices  curse  the  hour 
That  sees  the  builders  onward  crowd. 

True  to  the  Master  Mind,  whose  power 
Impels  them  build  by  plumb  and  line 

To  give  the  blood-stained  wall  increase, 
And  forward  push  the  huge  design 

Within  whose  mansions  dwelleth  peace. 

The  Master  Mind  is  in  no  place. 
It  hath  no  settled  rank  nor  name, 
41 


THE    MANY-MANSIONED    HOUSE 

Its  mood,  as  moulded  by  the  race, 

Shifts  often,  yet  remains  the  same 
To  meditate  what  miUions  think. 

And  shape  the  deed  to  fit  their  thought, 
Now  raising  high  who  seemed  to  sink. 

Now  flinging  down  their  choice  as  naught. 
It  lauds  what  sons  obey  its  calls 

When  time  has  come  for  hands  to  smite, 
And  when  the  hour  to  cease  befalls 

It  chastens  them  it  did  requite; 
Yet  still  so  chooses  that  the  change  ' 

From  war  to  peace  and  peace  to  w^ar 
Confirms  the  mansions  in  their  range. 

And  builds  the  far-built  wall  more  far. 

Within  the  many  mansions  dwell 

Nations  diverse  of  tongue  and  blood,  — 
Races  whose  primal  anthems  tell 

How  Ganges  grew  a  sacred  flood. 
Tribes  long  fore-fathered  when  the  birds 

Of  Egypt  saw  Osiris  pass. 
They  that  were  ancient  when  the  herds 

Of  Abraham  cropped  Chaldean  grass. 
People  whose  shepherd-priesthoods  saw 

The  might  of  Nineveh  begin. 
And  folk  whose  slaves  baked  mud  and  straw 

Mid  Babylon's  revelling  fume  of  sin; 
Blacks  that  have  served  in  every  age 

Since  first  the  yoke  of  Ham  they  wore. 
Yellows  who  set  the  printed  page 

Ere  Homer  sang  from  shore  to  shore, 
Swart  Browns  whose  glittering  kreeses  held 

In  dread  the  far-isled  Asian  seas. 
Fierce  Reds  who  waged  from  primal  eld 

Their  stealthy  warfare  of  the  trees; 
Men  of  the  jaguar-haunted  swamp 

Whose  mountain  masters  dwelt  in  pride 
Of  golden-citied  Aztec  pomp 

42 


THE   MANY-MANSIONED    HOUSE 

Ages  ere  Montezuma  died; 
Builders  whose  blood  was  in  the  hands 

That  propped  the  circled  Druid  stones, 
And  Odin-fathered  men,  whose  bands 

Storming  all  winds,  laid  warrior  bones 
Round  all  the  Roman  mid-world  sea. 

And  held  the  Caesars''  might  in  scorn. 
And  kept  the  Viking  liberty 

That  fairer  freedom  might  be  born. 

The  wall  defendeth  all  alike, 

The  Master  Mind  on  all  ordains :  — 

Within  my  bound  no  sword  shall  strike, 

Nor  fetter  bind,  save  law  arraigns  ; 
No  prisoner  here  shall  feel  the  rack. 

No  infant  be  to  slavery  born. 
The  wage  shall  labor  s  sweat  not  lack, 

Nor  skill  of  just  reward  be  shorn. 
The  king  and  hind  alike  shall  stand 

Within  the  peril  of  my  law. 
And  though  it  change  at  time's  demand 

Shall  every  change  be  held  in  awe. 
Here  every  voice  may  freely  speak 

Wisdom  or  folly  as  it  choose. 
And  though  the  strong  must  lead  the  weaky 

The  weak  may  yet  the  strong  refuse  ; 
Thus  shall  no  change  be  wrought  before 

The  wise  who  seek  a  better  way 
Can  win,  to  share  their  vision,  more 

Than  praise  the  wise  who  wish  delay,  — 
That  so  the  Master  Mind  be  strong 

Through  every  drift  of  time  and  change. 
To  fashion  either  right  or  wrong 

At  will,  within  the  mansions'  range. 

Of  what  is  wrong  and  what  is  right 

The  Master  Mind  doth  ceaseless  hear, 
Listens  intent  to  counselling  might, 

43 


THE    MANY-MANSIONED    HOUSE 

Pity  or  fury,  hope  or  fear, 
Sways  to  the  evil,  yet  repents, 

Sways  to  the  good,  yet  half  denies, 
Follows  revenge,  but  quick  relents. 

And  makes  its  wondering  foes  allies; 
In  memory  sees  its  frenzied  hours. 

And  holds  those  fury-fits  in  scorn ; 
In  gentlest  aspiration  towers. 

Or  grovels  as  of  faith  forlorn, 
Yet  never,  never  loses  quite 

The  thought,  the  hope,  the  glory-dream, 
That  beacon  of  supernal  light. 

The  shining,  holy  Grail-like  beam. 
The  Ideal  —  in  which  alone  it  dares 

Advance  the  circuit  of  the  wall  — 
The  faith  that  yet  shall  happy  shares 

Of  circumstance  be  won  for  all,  — 
This  is  the  vision  of  its  law, 

This  is  the  Asgard  of  its  dream  — 
That  what  the  world  yet  never  saw 

Of  justice  shall  arise  supreme. 

The  Master  Mind  proclaims  as  free 

Alike,  all  creeds  that  men  may  name, 
All  worships  they  devise  to  be 

Their  help  in  hope,  or  ease  in  shame; 
In  Buddha,  Mahmoud,  Moses,  Christ, 

Outspokenly  may  any  trust. 
Or  he  whom  no  belief  enticed 

May  hold  the  soul  a  dream  of  dust. 
Yet  all  alike  be  free  to  teach. 

And  all  alike  be  free  to  shun. 
Because  the  law  of  freeman's  speech 

Impartial  guardeth  every  one; 
If  but  all  rites  of  blood  be  banned. 

Then  may  each  life  select  its  God, 
And  every  congregation  stand 

Past  dread  of  persecution's  rod,  — 
44 


THE   MANY-MANSIONED    HOUSE 

Lo  now!   Is  thus  not  Jesus  set 

Transcendent  o'er  the  broad  domain  — 
The  gentle  Christ  whose  anguished  sweat 

Bled  for  a  world-wide  mercy's  reign  ? 

Yet  in  the  many  Mansions  flaunt, 

As  if  they  deem  their  place  secure, 
Legion,  whose  Christ-defying  vaunt 

How  long,  O  Lord,  dost  Thou  endure! 
Belshazzar's  Feast  is  multiplied. 

Mammon  holds  fabulous  parade, 
Thousands  of  Minotaurs  divide 

The  procurers'  tribute  of  the  maid, 
Circe  enchants  her  votary  swine, 

Moloch,  though  veiled  his  fire,  consumes, 
And  all  the  man-made  Gods  assign 

Their  victims  self-elected  dooms. 

In  large,  the  suffering  and  the  sin 

(Full  well  the  Master  Mind  doth  know). 
From  luxury  and  want  begin. 

And  through  unequal  portions  flow. 
This  ancient  wrong  doth  worst  defeat 

The  immortal  yearning  of  His  plea 
To  save  the  little,  wandering  feet,  — 

"Suffer  the  children  come  to  me  "; 

Wherefore,  on  streets  that  Mammon  makes 

The  Master  Mind  bends  ruthless  eye. 
Yet  calm  withholds  the  blow  that  breaks. 

And  leaves  that  stroke  to  by  and  by, 
Since  faithful  memory,  backward  cast. 

Beholds  how  much  hath  freedom  won. 
And  lest  a  pomp-destroying  blast 

Might  shrivel  many  a  guiltless  one, 
And  since  it  knows  that  freedom's  plan 

To  build  secure  alone  is  skilled, 
And  that  firm-grounded  gain  for  man 

45 


THE   MANY-MANSIONED    HOUSE 

Is  only  by  what  man  hath  willed.  — 
Hence  waits  the  Master  Mind,  in  trust 

That  yet  the  hour  shall  Mammon  rue, 
Since,  as  the  mansions  grow,  so  must 
,,     Freedom  upraise  The  Christ  anew. 

But  whether  He  prevail  at  last, 

Or  whether  all  shall  pass  away, 
Even  as  Rome's  great  Empire  passed 

When  wrought  the  purpose  of  its  day. 
Still  must  the  builders  heed  the  call 

By  which  the  Master  of  all  Fate 
Ordains  they  lay  the  advancing  wall 

Of  peace  beyond  the  farthest  gate. 

And,  oh !  the  Master  Mind  may  well 

In  pride  of  gentleness  rejoice 
That  in  the  Mansions  none  may  quell 

The  lilt  of  any  nation's  voice; 
But  every  race  may  sing  their  joy, 

May  hymn  their  pride,  their  glories  boast 
To  listeners  glad  without  alloy  — 

The  primal,  wall-extending  host. 
The  founding,  freedom-loving  race 

Whose  generous-visioning  mind  doth  see 
No  worth  in  holding  foremost  place, 

Save  in  an  Empire  of  the  Free. 


46 


PETER   OTTAWA 
PETER  OTTAWA 

(CANADIAN   NATIVISt) 

He  was  a  mighty  rover  in  his  prime. 
And  still,  though  bearded  white  as  Father  Time, 
Content  and  restless,  strong  and  curious,  he 
Roams  over  Canada  from  sea  to  sea. 

To  gaze  on  all  his  native  love  possest  — 
That  impulse  urged,  for  years,  his  wandering  quest; 
To  achieve  some  truthful  vision  of  the  whole 
From  Welland's  orchards  to  the  circumpole; 
To  know  all  tribes  and  races  of  the  land. 
Such  was  the  joy  his  youthful  ardor  planned. 
And  still  the  yearning  holds  him,  while  he  smiles 
To  think  of  how  the  Impossible  beguiles. 

Oft  as  he  turns  to  share  his  wealthy  home, 
So  oft,  insatiate,  hastes  he  forth  to  roam; 
And  in  the  region  round  about  Ouesnel 
His  ever-wondering  farmer-neighbors  tell;  — 
"He's  off  again!    God  knows  by  what  he's  led! 
Old  Peter  Ottawa  '11  never  die  in  bed  I " 

That  pseudonym  he  took  in  youth,  they  deem 
Perchance  in  pride  to  boast  his  native  stream, 
Or  p'r'aps  to  signify,  so  some  declare, 
Himself  too  nativist  to  wish  to  wear 
His  patronymic  of  one  Old-World  race. 
Since  he  four  glorious  ancestries  can  trace. 

*T  roam  by  right  of  Scottish  blood,"  he'll  say, 
"My  father's  grandsire  roved  till  his  last  day,  — 
Roderick  the  Red,  who  strode  with  kilted  thighs. 
The  highland  light  of  battle  in  his  eyes, 

47 


PETER   OTTAWA 

Where  many  a  stream  of  spirting  life  was  spilt 
Before,  with  Wolfe,  a  claymore's  basket  hilt 
Gript  in  his  iron  fist,  he  climbed  with  frown 
More  dour  than  high  Quebec  could  darkle  down." 

"Roving  is  in  my  blood  from  Gerald  Foy 
Who  charged  the  English  line  at  Fontenoy 
With  wild-heart  memories  of  the  home  he  fled; 
Tradition  tells  that  while  he  thrust  and  bled 
My  visioning  Irish  ancestor  could  see 
His  emerald  hills,  his  boyhood's  'fairy  tree/ 
His  native  glen,  with  family  roofs  aglow. 
His  stacks  red-lit,  his  mother's  wailing  woe, 
His  children  staring  vengeful  on  the  groups 
Of  half-ashamed,  half-stolid  English  troops, 
Whose  ranks  of  oak  ne'er  learned  a  foe  to  rue 
Till  Ireland's  banished  bayonets  charged  them  through." 

"And  yet,  praise  God,  the  English  heart  I  share, 
The  steadfast  blood  that  held  the  steely  square 
That  broke  the  cuirassiers  at  Waterloo, 
Firm,  for  the  Iron  Duke,  as  at  review; 
The  blood  that  bided  cool  that  dread  advance  — 
The  veteran.  Old,  immortal  Guard  of  France 
Who  charged,  yet  knowing  well  they  charged  in  vain  — 
If  vain  be  death-contemptuous  Glory's  gain  — 
Charged  to  end  there  th'  emblazoned  valor  scroll 
That  Fame  can  never  utterly  uproll;  — 
Or  so  my  Grandsire,  Pierre  Deschamps,  would  say, 
Old  Pierre,  who  charged  at  Hougomont  with  Ney." 

In  filial  love  he  boasts  his  Gallic  part, 

His  half-French  mother  gave  him  half  his  heart; 

But  Pierre  of  Waterloo  is  less  his  pride 

Than  Pierre's  Canadian  grandsire,  Jean,  who  died 

In  seventeen-sixty,  hard  by  Fort  Levis, 

Where  Pouchot's  braves  renewed  Thermopylae. 

48 


PETER   OTTAWA 

There  he,  with  scarce  four  hundred,  held  at  stand. 
For  nineteen  days,  stout  Amherst's  whole  command, 
Eleven  thousand,  balked  on  ship  and  shore. 
Till  Pouchot's  muster  fell  to  thirteen  score. 

"Militiamen  remember,"  Peter  says, 

"Just  habitants,  Hke  ours  of  later  days. 
Farming  their  little  clearings  by  the  stream 
That  floated  Amherst  down  its  August  dream.  — 
And  who  dare  say  the  least  among  them  all 
Was  not  a  very  Paladin  of  Gaul  ? 
Go  to  —  our  Canada  from  France  retains 
A  strain  as  staunch  as  pulses  British  veins!" 

French,  English,  Irish,  Scotch  he  reconciles, 
Boasts  them  alike,  and  with  his  boasting  smiles;  — 
"That's  me  —  that's  Canada  —  a  fourfold  flame 
Of  mighty  origins  surrounds  the  name.  — 
Lives  there  a  man  in  all  the  land  to-day 
Can  wish  one  pioneering  race  away  ? 
His  heart's  an  immigrant.  —  I  say  no  more; 
We  chide  no  stranger  entering  at  our  door. 
But  bid  him  welcome,  bid  him  share  the  meal,  — 
His  children  yet  the  native  sense  shall  feel; 
And  what  care  we  if  twenty  races  blend 
In  blood  that  flows  Canadian  at  the  end  ?" 

Our  painted  Autumn  sets  him  roaming  wide, 
As  if  his  lifelong  yearning  could  not  bide 
To  watch  his  own  Laurentian  mapled  range 
From  pomp  to  pomp  magnificently  change. 
But  he  must  up  and  forth  with  every  dawn. 
Through  aisles  of  glamorous  color  following  on. 
Mid  golden-showering  leaves,  a  viewless  trail. 
Through  rustling  corridors  a  voiceless  hail. 
Over  what  vista-mirroring  lakes  a  guide 
Whose  beckonings  misty  distance  scarce  can  hide. 
Beyond  yet  one  more  rapid's  murmurous  song 

49 


PETER   OTTAWA 

The  enchanting  call  of  follow,  follow  long, 

Which  ever  sang,  and  ever  sped  before, 

And  ever  led  his  Fathers  one  day  more. 

Until  at  last,  beyond  the  enormous  plain, 

And  past  the  eternal  snow-peaks'  ranging  chain, 

The  imperious  western  surges  ordered  Stand, 

And  turned  them  back  to  claim  the  traversed  land. 

And  turned  them  back  to  axe,  and  scythe,  and  plough. 
Toil,  thrift,  long  patience,  and  the  thoughtful  brow 
Inspired  to  rear  on  Earth  what  He  commands  — 
The  House  that  is  not  builded  up  of  Hands. 

"Which  is,"  says  Peter,  "ancient  England's  dream, 
Though  oft  she  be  distracted  from  the  theme 
By  Viking  children,  and  by  threatening  voice; 
'T  is  still  the  dream  in  which  she  doth  rejoice, 
(Even  as  any  whirling  human  soul 
Is  glad  when  toiling  toward  the  heaven-goal). 
She  doth  rejoice  to  rear  for  Aran's  behoof. 
Her  hospitable,  many-mansioned  roof, 
Wherein  the  immemorial  Laborer  yet 
Freely  shall  eat  the  bread  of  his  own  sweat. 
It 's  when  we  muse  on  English  greathearts'  aim, 
And  muse  how  true  our  laws  pursue  the  same, 
Then,  then  we  exult  about  our  Mother's  throne. 
And  love  her  ideal  Empire  as  our  own." 

Dreaming  a  better  Britain  rising  here 
Mid  winter  forests  lovely  and  austere, 
His  creaking  snowshoes  track  what  vaulted  miles 
Where  towering  pines  uprange  converging  aisles, 
When  neither  shrub  nor  shadow  checks  the  gaze, 
But  one  white  undulation  floors  the  maze 
Of  colonnades  so  tall  they  seem  to  lean 
Inward  before  they  branch  the  roof  of  green 
Whose  rifts,  at  times  asway,  disclose  the  blue, 
At  times  let  aimless  snowflakes  wander  through 

50 


PETER   OTTAWA 

To  waver  down,  as  if  they  hesitate 

Lest  merest  motion  be  to  desecrate 

That  subtle  stillness,  where  the  high-head  grouse 

Treads  three-toed,  wondering,  and  the  forest  mouse 

Meandering  timid,  dots  a  tiny  track 

Whose  every  swerve  denotes  a  fear  Attack 

Were  hovering  in  the  Mystery  all  around  — 

So  much  more  threatening  Silence  is  than  Sound. 

The  reverent  rover,  chancing  to  intrude 
Within  the  borders  of  such  Solitude, 
Worships  in  natural  piety  sincere 
A  holy  spirit  quiet  brooding  here. 
Within  a  fane  whose  ministrants  are  none 
Except  the  chanting  Winds,  the  wheeling  Sun, 
The  patient  Seasons'  alternating  train, 
Their  potent  servitors  of  Shine  and  Rain, 
Ordained  by  Something,  kin  to  Time  and  Space, 
Regnant  and  immanent  throughout  the  place, 
Which  urges  apprehension  on  the  soul 
That  its  own  being  merges  with  the  Whole. 

No  less  he  worships  where  some  Western  throng 
Of  pioneers  moves  sturdily  along 
The  hurrying,  half-built  streets  of  plains  he  knew 
When  buffalo  ranged  round  all  the  circling  blue. 
There  every  face  declares  some  inward  tune 
Of  Hope  and  Happiness  at  plenilune. 
The  eyes  shine  keen,  on  Enterprise  intent. 
As  if  that  every  west-Canadian  meant 
To  realize  some  visionary  State 
Surpassing  good,  and  glorious,  and  great. 
So  strode,  be  sure,  the  Viking  race  of  old. 
Elate  though  arduous,  kind  and  shrewd  and  bold. 
Scanning  the  future,  as  they  faced  the  gale, 
With  no  misgivings  lest  their  strength  should  fail, 
Assured  the  World  was  made  for  them  who  DO, 
And  God  would  see  his  active  children  through. 

51 


PETER   OTTAWA 

He  did,  by  Heaven,  and  still  our  kin  fare  forth 

Beneath  all  galaxies  of  South  and  North, 

Degenerate  only  where,  by  vested  Wrong, 

The  money-mongers  crowd,  and  rot,  the  throng. 

Give  them  but  land  and  air,  then  not  the  best 

Of  all  the  broods  that  flew  the  ancient  nest 

More  pleased  the  All-father  by  their  works  and  ways 

Than  His  adventurers  of  the  latter  days. 

In  treble  ribbons  see  the  prairie  run 
Black  from  their  ploughshares  in  the  westering  sun, 
Whose  shine  the  yearning  sod-hut  settler  sees 
Gild  children's  wealthy  roofs  through  future  trees, 
And,  patient  joyful,  deems  the  vision  fair, 
Which  his  own  eyes  may  never  witness  there. 

Behold  rude  hamlets,  every  one  with  School, 

With  Church,  with  Council-hall  for  lawful  rule, 

The  wind-bronzed,  hard-hand  Fathers  giving  free 

Their  little  leisure,  that  the  New  Land  be 

So  set  for  Order  in  its  early  years 

That  Time's  long  talk  shall  bless  the  pioneers. 

Or,  clearly  vision  some  September  plain 
Where  one  sole  Reaper  shrills  in  harvest  grain 
Before  the  whirring  grouse  takes  morning  flight 
Till  the  long  gloaming  deepens  into  night 
That  lets  the  Stalwart,  freed  from  labor's  dues, 
Plod  shackward,  blessing  God  that  sleep  renews 
His  power  to  lift  the  morrow's  heavy  gage, 
And  day  by  day  the  lonely  battle  wage, 
Until  at  last,  with  all  his  wheat  well  saved, 
A  haggard  victor  from  the  strife  he  braved. 
He  eyes  the  stacks  that  prove  his  manhood  sound 
For  her  who  shall  emparadise  his  ground, 
And  sternly  knows,  within  his  secret  heart, 
That  never  Warrior  acted  higher  part. 

52 


PETER   OTTAWA 

It  seems  to  me  a  blasphemy  immense 
To  imagine  God  the  foe  of  common  sense, 
And  not  a  Power  of  sanity  complete, 
Who  surely  holds  an  arduous  useful  feat 
Of  resolute  labor  something  over  par, 
Compared  with  deeds  of  War,  which  ever  are, 
At  best,  but  just  a  fate-defying  stand 
Made,  since  the  World  began,  in  every  land, 
For  hate,  or  hope,  or  pay,  or  love,  or  lust. 
But  mostly  just  because  the  soldier  must 
Obey  the  officer,  who  must  obey 
In  turn  the  ordered  orderer  of  the  day, 
Himself  a  sort  of  slave  to  slaves  whose  trade 
Is  just  to  get  Stupidity  obeyed;  — 
The  cruel,  dense  stupidity  of  Pride, 
Callous  to  wholesale  murder  on  each  side, 
And  loathe  to  arbitrate,  lest  Judges  wise 
Settle  some  trivial  point  by  compromise. 

Poor  World,  insensate  bred,  and  deep  possest 
By  febrile  Fear  pretending  warlike  zest! 
Could  your  bedevilled  peoples  see  arise 
The  kindly  Sun  of  west-Canadian  skies 
Over  the  solitudes  of  perfect  Peace, 
Surely  might  blustering  forever  cease; 
Then  all  your  unencited  multitudes. 
Calmed  into  love  of  calm,  might  still  the  broods 
Who  rave,  persuasive  in  the  Music  Hall, 
That  Man  must  arm  and  kill  lest  worse  befall; 
Would  trust  the  common  wisdom  of  the  heart. 
Which  purely  whispers  that  all  combats  start 
From  that  Yahoo  suspicion  which  insists 
Peace  cannot  be,  even  while  peace  exists; 
Would  resolutely  reason  —  God's  fair  world 
Was  given  all  kindly,  and  by  Hate  is  whirled 
Into  those  horrors  which  shall  henceforth  end  — 
So  vast  the  earth,  with  room  for  all  to  wend 
In  labor's  honest  ways,  their  fellows'  friend. 

53 


PETER   OTTAWA 

To  share  the  western  work,  to  smack  its  taste, 

Old  Peter  hies  him  often  to  the  waste; 

One  year,  with  thirty  wagons  in  his  train, 

He  took  the  Athabasca  trail  again, 

Adventurer,  trader,  settler  all  in  one,  — 

Reapers,  provisions,  disc-ploughs,  cartridge,  gun,  — 

Sure,  as  of  old,  his  proper  gain  to  find 

Though  every  market-place  were  far  behind. 

It  chanced  he  saw  six  hundred  acres  spread 
Golden  and  ripe,  where  one  sole  reaper  sped. 

"Alone?"  called  Peter. 

"Quite,"  the  settler  cried, 
Halting  his  horses  in  their  sweating  stride. 

"This  wheat  all  yours  ?"  — 

"Well,  that  I  hardly  know. 
Although  I  paid  its  planting  months  ago, 
The  blackbird  swarms  may  get  the  larger  share," 
The  youth  was  blue-eyed,  ruddy,  Saxon  fair;  — 

"My  name  is  Brown  —  I  'm  English  —  green  as  grass  — 
And  no  one  warned  me  what  a  thundering  ass 
I  was  to  buy,  at  Home,  a  section  here. 
Pay  cash  to  have  it  broke  and  sowed  this  year; 
It  was  n't  till  I  came  across  in  May 
I  learned  my  'farm'  is  two  long  days  away 
From  railways,  neighbors,  markets,  help  from  man.  — 
But  greenhorns  just  must  do  the  best  they  can.  — 
Go  on ! "  —  He  chirruped  gayly  to  his  pair. 
Once  more  the  reaper's  whirring  held  the  air. 

Old  Peter  laughed  and  swore;  —  "Absurd  young  fool! 
English  as  English!   Eight-year-olds  at  school 
About  Quesnel  would  be  too  sharp  for  that  ! 
And  yet,  tort  dteu,  he  smiles  beneath  his  hat 
Good-humored,  game!  —  I  like  the  fellow  fine! 
What's  more,  the  lad's  an  Ancestor  of  mine!" 
Turning  he  faced  his  plodding  wagons  then;  — 
"Halt!  Halt!   Arrete !   Pull  up!   Unhitch,  my  men! 

54 


PETER   OTTAWA 

Unload  the  reaper-binders  —  rig  'em  quick! 
Pitch  all  the  tents  —  right  here  a  week  we  '11  stick. 
Who  ever  saw  a  prettier  spread  of  wheat  ? 
Dashed  if  my  English  blood  shall  taste  defeat!" 

Ten  days  went  by  —  the  grateful  settler  saw 
Great  stacks  enroofed  —  his  acres  stubble  straw  — 
His  fourteen  thousand  bushels  safely  stored, 
And  Peter's  wagons  winding  past  the  ford. 

'Talk  me  no  pay,"  the  oldster  laughed  him  down, 
'Call  it  a  wedding  gift  for  Mistress  Brown,  — 
Scotch,  Irish,  French,  her  strains  of  blood  must  be  — 
Mixed  with  your  English,  Lord  the  brood  we'll  see! 
Fathered  and  mothered  on  the  surest  plan 
To  make  'em  through  and  through  Canadian!" 
So  Brown  reports  Old  Peter's  joke  to-day, 
Roared  as  he  whipt  his  team,  and  raced  away. 

Ten  days  of  thirty  men  and  thirty  teams! 
Well  —  Peter's  often  shrewder  than  he  seems. 
The  veteran's  thirty  teamsters  settled  down 
On  homestead  blocks  about  the  land  of  Brown, 
While  Peter  bought  the  Railway  Lands  between.  — 
Two  years  —  a  branch  line  hastened  to  the  scene! 
He  saw  that  finish  clearly  from  the  start; 
He  'd  picked  out  settlers  that  he  knew  by  heart, 
Furnished  them  all  supplies  till  next  year's  Fall, 
Horses,  machinery,  wagons,  shacks,  and  all; 
No  note,  no  mortgage,  not  a  scratch  of  pen 
'Twixt  him  and  them  —  old  Peter  knew  his  men. 
To-day  they  farm  his  boughten  tracts  on  shares, 
And  half  the  township  's  his,  and  half  is  theirs. 

'It's  square,"  he  says.    "But  fair?   I  have  my  doubt. 
Yet,  when  old  Peter  Ottawa  peters  out. 
The  lads  will  find  him  at  the  latter  end. 
As  at  the  first,  a  pretty  steady  friend;  — 

55 


PETER   OTTAWA 

Thank  God  my  children  are  not  money-mad! 

Meantime,  I  hold  the  Landlord  system  bad. 

Oh  yes,  it 's  been  my  profit  many  a  year, 

And  owning  property  is  a  kind  of  cheer. 

It 's  handy,  too;  for  if  your  fellow  man 

Is  needing  help,  it 's  good  to  know  you  can. 

Of  course  it  grits  my  Irish  many  a  night 

To  know  a  Landlord  's  just  a  parasite; 

But  take  the  world  the  way  it 's  made  we  must. 

Meantime  I'll  hold  myself  a  Landlord-Trust; 

Two  hundred  tenants  get  one  fourth  my  ground 

When  Peter  Ottawa  's  finished  out  his  round. 

That  kind  of  saves  my  Irish  fourth  from  shame,  — 

The  rest  —  my  Scotch-French-English  —  stand  the  blame 

For  landed  property  they  cant  let  go, 

It's  God  Almighty  makes  Canadians  so!" 

Easy  in  dogma,  Peter  holds  all  creeds 
Sufficient  unto  true  religion's  needs;  — 
"Do  unto  others  as  you  would  they  should 
To  you,"  he  says,  "sets  out  the  whole  of  good. 
The  life  that 's  guided  so,  its  Lord  is  He 
Who  savored  anguish  in  Gethsemane; 
No  matter  if  such  Christian  be  a  Turk, 
He  'II  get  what 's  justly  coming  for  his  work. 
Methodist,  CathoHc,  Shaker,  Theist,  Jew, 
Buddhist,  it's  all  according  as  they  DO. 
No  need  to  name  the  seven  score  creeds  enrolled 
Equal  in  Canada,  and  each  extolled 
By  true-believing  seekers  after  God 
To  be  preeminent  as  Aaron's  rod; 
In  what  they  hold  alike  is  surely  found 
The  essential  elemental  Truth  profound, 
And  that 's  —  there 's  something  heavenly  in  the  plan 
Of  dealing  gently  with  your  fellow  man. 
And  something  hellish  in  the  heart  that  sates 
Its  cruel  greed  and  domineering  hates." 

56 


PETER   OTTAWA 

For  worship  Peter 's  never  in  the  lurch 
In  any  place,  or  any  kind  of  church, 
Cathedral  glorious  built,  or  chapel  rude, 
He  finds  in  each  his  spiritual  food; 
Ever  he  enters  reverent,  with  one  prayer :  — 
"Oh!  Father,  grant  thy  wandring  child  to  share 
The  blessing  sought  by  them  who  built  this  shrine  — 
A  sense  of  nearness  to  the  Soul  divine";  — 
And  from  no  congregation  could  he  part 
Without  a  benediction  in  his  heart. 

"Good  will,"  he  says,  "is  true  Canadian  growth, 
And  Toleration  is  a  word  I  loathe,  — 
It  comes  from  times  when  every  theolog 
Hankered  to  persecute,  as  some  fierce  dog 
Chained  to  a  staple,  winks  with  wicked  eyes, 
Shows  snarling  teeth,  and  still  quiescent  lies, 
Angry  and  devilish  from  tail  to  jaws. 
Because  he  's  clamped  —  as  bigots  by  our  laws. 
To  hearken  brag  of  'Toleration'  here. 
Where  all  are  equal,  makes  me  kind  of  rear, 
And,  if  I  swore,  I  'd  launch  my  biggest  curse 
Against  such  insolence.    Can  one  be  worse  ? 
Except,  perhaps,  that  brawling  arrogance 
Which  roars  opinion  that  our  strain  from  France 
Should  dumbly  bear  to  have  its  mother  tongue, 
Creed,  laws,  and  customs  trampled  into  dung. 
Because  one  set  of  soldiers  long  ago 
Climbing  a  hill  by  night,  surprised  their  foe! 
Be  hanged  to  conquerors'  right!     Our  monarch's  claim 
Is  broadly  founded  on  fair  Freedom's  name. 
And  half  the  liberties  which  we  entrench 
Came  from  the  patient  struggle  of  our  French." 

As  Scots  hold  Scottish  customs  unco  sound, 

As  Erin  is  by  Erin's  sons  renowned. 

As  France's  children  celebrate  her  praise, 

As  English  folk  are  staunch  for  English  ways, 

57 


PETER   OTTAWA 

So  Peter  guides  him  by  his  native  Hght;  — 
"Whatever  is  Canadian,  that  is  right! 
And  if  we  change  it  of  our  own  free  will, 
It's  right  again,  because  Canadian  still! 
By  this  great  dogma,  and  by  this  alone 
Can  native-born  Canadians  hold  their  own 
Against  the  meddling,  not  ill-meaning  crew 
Of  immigrant  advisers  What  to  do; 
By  this  alone  the  sound  Canadian  stands, 
Like  all  his  forbears  in  their  native  lands." 

Squared  to  this  dogma  he  '11  philosophize 
Smilingly  contra  to  the  imported  Wise, 
Or  Wiseacres,  who  rail  at  Separate  Schools, 
Two  tongues  official,  all  the  liberal  rules 
Our  Fathers  made,  by  compromise  benign. 
To  ease  the  creeds,  the  races,  and  incline 
All  native  hearts  one  patriot  sense  to  share 
That  here  mankind  is  freer  than  elsewhere. 

"Homo-gen-e-ity,"  he  drawls.    "Absurd 
To  make  a  fetich  of  the  long-tailed  word! 
And  then  proceed  to  allege  that  its  command 
Is  Christian  creed  from  public  schools  be  banned  ; 
A  plan  in  puritanic  zeal  evoked 
Mainly  to  keep  one  Christian  creed  provoked, 
And  force  its  children  to  a  double  tax 
For  schooling,  lest  their  children's  faith  relax. 

"A  sillier  tyranny  no  country  shows  — 
It 's  somewhat  as  if  every  youngster's  nose 
To  be  snipt  off  were  by  an  edict  doomed. 
Because  some  few  small  noses  were  presumed 
Likely  to  relish  incense  if  they  grew 
To  know  its  scent  as  parent  noses  do  — 
Then  every  youthful  nose  were  snipt  —  save  those 
That  went  apart  for  incense  when  they  chose ! " 

58 


PETER    OTTAWA 

"To  teach  the  children  reverence  for  a  creed, 
No  matter  what,  which  duly  taketh  heed 
Of  God's  perennial  miracle,  the  World 
And  all  the  lives  about  its  orbit  whirled,  — 
To  teach  them  conscience,  duty,  love,  and  awe. 
Respect  for  righteous  ethics  and  for  Law, 
But  one  sure  way  the  Wise  have  ever  found 
Since  our  first  Fathers  spaded  up  the  ground,  — 
And  that 's  to  impart,  in  childhood's  earliest  schools, 
A  sense  for  guidance  by  rehgious  rules. 

"Give  me  a  Methodist  that's  methodist, 
A  true-blue  Lutheran,  true-blue  Calvinist, 
An  Anglican  who  z>  all  anglican, 
Or  catholic  Catholic,  —  then  I  've  got  a  man 
Who  '11  stand  for  genuine  Right  through  thick  and  thin, 
And  help  guard  Canada  from  rotten  sin. 
Even  a  Chinaman  who  fears  his  Joss 
And  burns  a  stick  before  his  moral  Boss, 
Is  fitter  far  to  help  us  run  the  State 
Than  those  greed-sodden  empty-hearts  who  prate 
That  plants,  and  beasts,  and  men  must  share  one  fate, 
Material  atoms  all,  enlivened  clod. 
Dust  unto  Dust,  and  nothing  raised  to  God. 

"A  greedy  public  victimized  by  greed, 
Women  who  wed  determined  not  to  breed, 
Virtue  defined  as  wishy-washy  cant 
Where  long-haired  men  and  short-haired  women  rant, 
That's  what  they  get,  and  get  it  more  and  more, 
Who  oust  all  creeds  from  Education's  door; 
That's  what  they  get,  a  populace  dead  at  heart 
To  Him  who  still  performs  His  chastening  part. 
Whose  mills  still  grind  exceeding  small,  if  slow;  — 
Look  at  the  grist  our  neighbors  have  to  show;  — 

"A  Nation  which,  like  Hope's  bright  star,  arose 
To  flash  long  fear  on  Man's  oppressive  foes, 

59 


PETER   OTTAWA 

Now  seeming  destined  to  be  ruled  at  last, 

Controlled,  directed  contra  to  its  past, 

By  them  whose  teachers  ever  hold  on  high, 

"T  is  Heaven's  command,  Increase  and  Multiply. 

"Homo-gen-e-ity!   And  why  should  we 
Ignore  the  blessings  of  Diversity  ? 
Where  several  tongues  and  many  creeds  prevail, 
Though  equal  all  alike  in  Freedom's  pale, 
No  sudden  general  madness  strikes  the  throng 
And  sweeps  the  whole  to  foolishness  or  wrong. 

"We  saw  the  solidarity  of  France 
For  war,  betray  her  to  the  devil's  dance; 
We  saw  the  solid  States  rise  up  in  rage, 
An  inconsistent,  tyrant  war  to  w-age 
For  domination  over  brown  allies 
Who'd  served  them  faithfully,  for  Freedom's  prize; 
We  saw  the  solid  English  slowly  worked 
Against  their  nature,  to  a  war  that  irked 
Their  inward,  temperate  sense  that,  largely,  right 
Lay  with  the  freemen  whom  they  wrought  to  fight ; 
And  many  and  many  a  woeful  slaughter  more 
Must  Truth  lay  at  the  Homogeneous  door. 

"Count  up  the  dead  by  fever,  shot,  and  shell, 
Count  up  the  cripples,  count  all  tears  that  fell, 
Count  up  the  orphan  children  of  the  strife, 
Count  the  long-yearning  heart  of  parent,  wife. 
Count  the  vast  treasure,  count  the  labor's  waste, 
Count  all  the  cost  of  passion's  headlong  haste, 
And  then  you  '11  know  what  solid  Nations  pay 
When  common  impulse  sweeps  good  sense  away. 
Flushing  the  millions  madly  all  at  once 
With  Wisdom  down,  and  up  the  truculent  Dunce  ! 

"Give  me  to  live  where  public  matters  wait 
The  careful  issue  of  the  long  debate, 

60 


PETER   OTTAWA 

Where  steady  champions  of  divergent  creeds 
And  differing  races  urge  their  various  needs, 
Where  naught  of  serious  consequence  is  done 
Unless  approved  as  fraught  with  vprong  to  none, 
Where  every  honest  man  of  every  kind 
(Though  momentary  party  passion  bhnd) 
Shall  know  full  well,  within  his  secret  heart, 
The  adopted  course  is  common-sense's  part, 
Expedient  in  its  time,  and  therefore  sound 
For  all  alike  within  the  Nation's  bound. 

'In  such  a  land,  though  many  a  year  we  go 
So  patient-cautious,  neighbors  call  us  slow, 
We  shun  the  abyss,  we  move  by  Reason's  light, 
We  march  as  brothers,  and  we  climb  the  height 
Where  yet  our  flag  shall  gently  be  unfurled 
Symbolic  of  a  federated  World, 
Whose  problem  do  we  daily  solve  while  we 
Climb  upward,  peaceful  in  Diversity." 


So  Peter  Ottawa  lives,  full  well  content 

To  bide  the  lot  he  deems  as  Heaven-sent; 

Keeping  his  glorious  ancestries  in  mind. 

To  all  traditions  piously  inclined; 

He'll  plod,  and  laugh,  and  hope,  and  boast,  and  roam 

About  the  enormous  tracts  he  calls  his  Home, 

And  thank  the  Lord  that  things  are  as  they  are. 

And  glad  his  soul  with  dreams  of  futures  far,  — 

Whereby,  perchance,  full  many  a  time  he  stands 

Within  The  House  not  builded  up  of  Hands. 


6i 


PARLIAMENT    OF   THE   AGES 
PARLIAMENT  OF  THE  AGES 

(an   OTTAWA   vision) 

Of  all  who  'd  thronged  the  Commons'  galleries 
For  early  April  evening's  main  debate, 
One  student  visionary  sole  remained. 

Down  on  the  floor  the  members  argued  yet, 
Though  midnight  long  had  passed,  and  rosy  dawn 
Came  streaming  in  through  eastward  glory-panes 
To  tint  the  lofty  ashlared  westward  wall 
With  shining  jewel-colored  phantasies. 

The  Dreamer  watched  the  brilliancies  of  morn 
Descending  on  that  opposite  westward  wall 
From  panelled  ceiling  down  to  pointed  arch, 
From  arch  to  shadowy  alcoves'  ruby  panes. 
Where  luminous  beamed  the  storied  English  Kings, 
The  Crown,  the  ramping  Pards,  the  Unicorn, 
With  ancient  mottoes  of  the  Ancient  Realm, 
And  new-made  Arms  of  modern  provinces 
Emblazoned  on  the  young  Dominion's  shield. 

Now  in  the  watcher's  dream  the  sunrise  merged 
The  Fish,  the  Maple  Leaves,  the  Bufi^alo 
With  Rose  and  Thistle,  Shamrock,  Fleur-de-lys, 
The  Crown,  the  Kings,  the  emblem  Viking-ships, 
With  some  great  banner,  glorious,  indistinct, 
The  Flag  of  mighty,  English-speaking  kin, 
All  beaming  benison  ineffable. 
Such  promise  as  no  mortal  ever  saw 
On  Land  or  Sea,  save  o'er  the  mystic  shores 
And  waters  of  a  halcyon  Future  dreamed. 

The  desks,  the  Speaker's  Chair  seemed  rapt  away. 
No  stony  walls  inclosed  the  Commons'  House, 

62 


PARLIAMENT   OF   THE   AGES 

But  in  the  wonder-light  a  woodland  spread 
About  one  venerable  northland  Oak 
Silent,  except  for  distant-droning  bees, 
And  one  tall,  blue-eyed,  sworded,  yellow-haired, 
Hard-panting  Viking,  kirtled  gray,  who  stood 
Beneath  the  trysting-oak,  and  strove  to  quell 
His  gasps,  deep-laboring  from  a  lengthy  run. 
While,  listening  keen,  he  heard  the  bees  in  drone, 
And  watched  to  hail  his  second  to  the  tryst 
Of  freemen  signalled  for  a  moot  of  War. 

Then,  far  around,  the  forest  sounded  live 
With  crackling  twigs  and  scores  of  emulous  feet 
From  every  quarter  of  the  glooming  shade, 
And  wonder-shouts,  half  vexed  and  half  of  praise, 
Roared  at  the  Champion  who  to  tree  of  Moot 
Had  speeded  foremost  of  the  valorous  band. 

Hard-breathing  all,  they  ranged  about  the  Oak 

Equal  alike,  save  one  they  lifted  high 

On  shield,  and  named  him  for  their  Council  Earl. 

Then  there  they  fell  to  talk  of  march  and  plan, 

Of  meat  and  meal  and  beer  and  dragon-ships, 

And  Ways  and  Means,  —  contentious,  passionate. 

Yet  one  man  only  speaking  up  at  once. 

Heard  silently,  approved,  or  laughed  to  scorn. 

Yet  hearkened  closely,  since  th'  elected  Earl 

Full  briskly  stopt  each  interrupting  voice 

By  one  clear  word,  quite  mystic,  quite  unknown 

Unto  the  Dreamer  in  the  gallery. 

For  whom  no  more  the  banners  of  the  morn 

In  wholly  visionary  colors  flared. 

Because  imperious  from  the  Speaker's  Chair 

A  voice  called  "Order"  stoutly,  in  a  tone 

So  like  the  ancient  Viking  Earl's,  the  two 

Seemed  blent  as  one  within  the  Dreamer's  brain. 


63 


PARLIAMENT   OF   THE   AGES 

Scarcely  awake,  the  Student's  roaming  thought  —     , 

ObHvious  to  the  actual  place,  the  dawn. 

The  visioned  tryst  of  Father  Odin's  men  — 

Pondered  a  Deity  who  shaped  His  world 

In  such  a  wise  that  they  must  most  prevail 

Who  choose  one  Will  to  rule  by  Order's  call, 

That  every  Manliness  may  freely  tell 

Its  thought  upon  the  public  thing  in  hand. 

And  so  the  general  common  sense  have  sway. 

Instead  of  Policy  conceived  alone 

By  any  one  hereditary  Will, 

Or,  worse,  take  course  tumultuous,  scarce  resolved 

By  gabblers  chattering  unamenable. 

In  whose  Assemblages  prehensile  tails, 

Inscrutable  to  eyesight,  swing  the  Ape 

In  futile  men  through  dizzy  fooleries. 

And  still  the  talkers  on  the  Commons'  floor 
Contended  voluble ;  while  he  who  heard 
Their  drone,  forgot  once  more,  and  dreamed  a  scene 
More  wondrous  than  the  primal  Viking  moot. 

For  one  came  frowning  in,  with  sword  in  hand 
And  blazoned  armor,  and  an  eye  more  stern 
Than  gleamed  beneath  the  brow  of  England's  king:  — 
"I  call,"  he  spoke,  "The  Realms  to  Parliament! 
Present  and  Past,  by  mine,  the  Founder's  right, 
Simon  de  Montfort,  I,  proclaim  the  call!" 

It  clanged  as  sounding  through  The  Ages'  tombs 
So  loud  that  lofty-opening  doors  of  Time 
Revealed  in  earthly  garb  a  Statesman  throng 
From  every  Parliament  since  Montfort  breathed. 
Majestic,  turbulent,  guileful,  eloquent. 
Profound,  laborious,  witty,  whimsical, 
Reverend  in  age,  or  beardless  chinned  as  boys; 
Knight,  Admiral,  Merchant,  Lawyer,  Pedagogue, 
Yeoman,  Adventurer,  Soldier,  Minister, 

64 


PARLIAMENT   OF   THE   AGES 

Poet,  Philosopher,  Roundhead,  CavaHer, 
Mechanic,  Theologue,  Philanthropist; 
Exploring  wights  whose  bones  the  jackals  pawed 
On  Lybian  arid  sands,  and  they  whose  forms 
Lie,  white  as  marble,  stiff  nigh  either  Pole; 
Spirits  whose  mortal  vestures  braved  all  fates 
That  daring  hearts  or  martyr  hopes  conceived. 

It  seemed  not  strange  to  view  the  Shapes  of  Eld 
In  formal-friendly  conference  of  talk 
With  some  who  perished  as  of  yesterday, 
With  some  who  founded  New  World  congresses, 
With  some  who  wielded  outland  Parliaments 
Which  strove  so  English-like  for  Liberty 
That  England  reeled  to  win  against  their  few, 
With  some  whose  mien  and  accents  now  control 
The  rising  younger  Nations  of  The  Race ; 
It  seemed  not  strange,  so  clear  they  all  alike, 
Musing  the  ordered  methods  of  their  rule, 
Blessed  dear  the  Mother  of  all  Parliaments, 
The  Many-mansioned  Mother  of  The  Free. 

There  prudent  Cecil  leaned  to  Laurier 
While  John  Macdonald  held  them  both  in  talk. 
His  "brother,"  Cartier,  nodding  to  the  tale; 
There  Richard  Seddon's  burly  honest  ghost 
With  Wilberforce  and  Hampden  close  conferred; 
There  Edmund  Burke  warned  Deakin  cautiously 
Of  tempting  Innovation's  bright  mirage; 
There  Pitt,  the  younger,  spoke  with  Cecil  Rhodes 
And  stout  Oom  Paul,  of  Empire  building  themes. 
While  Grattan  unto  icy  Parnell  sighed 
Of  angry  Ireland's  immemorial  wrong; 
There  Chatham,  eagle-faced,  with  Washington 
And  Franklin  nigh,  declared,  —  'T  praise  again 
Your  English-minded  fight  for  Liberty  — 
America's  victory  secured  it  firm 
For  all  the  outland  broods  of  England's  swarm." 

65 


PARLIAMENT   OF   THE   AGES 

There  Strafford  gloomed  to  Russell's  lofty  gaze, 
The  Stuart  circle  round  each  stately  neck; 
There  honest-meaning,  muddle-headed  Cade, 
Who  lingered  nigh  the  portal  as  of  right, 
Because  he  called  a  shirtless  Parliament, 
Received  a  courteous  nod  of  compliment 
From  mighty  Gladstone's  comprehensive  love; 
There  Peel,  considerate  still,  eyed  D'Israeli 
As  if  in  w^onder  that  the  Great  Jew's  heart 
Should  yet  be  counted  one  of  England's  pride; 
There  Canning,  of  the  soul-revealing  face. 
And  bull-dog  Cobbett,  passionately  vi^roth, 
And  Palmerston  and  Bright  and  thousands  more 
All  moved  at  home  within  the  visioned  space 
Until,  it  seemed,  a  Puritan  Statesman  stern. 
With  Puritan  Troopers  ringed,  eyed  Harry  Vane 
With  "Take  away  that  bauble."   Then  the  Mace 
Seemed  borne  afar  incredibly,  by  force. 
From  that  great  Chamber  of  the  freeman  Race, 
Old  Englandish,  New  Englandish,  Canadian, 
Newfoundlandish,  Australian,  African, 
Who  hold,  or  held,  the  emblem  sacrosanct. 

With  that  great  sacrilege  the  dream  dissolved. 
And  clear  again  the  radiancies  high 
Shone  o  'er  the  Ottawa  floor  of  Parliament, 
While,  down  below,  a  high-pitched  Loyalist 
Declared,    convinced,  with  querulous  energy,  — 
^Tke  Empire's  tottering  down  !    It  can't  be  saved 
Unless  we  get  the  Preference  all  around" 

Touched  sudden  by  the  Sun's  imperial  beams, 
A  gargoyle  grinned  upon  the  western  wall 
As  if  it  heard  the  Preferentialist, 
While  gales  of  laughter  echoed  far  below. 
Whereat  the  dreamer,  wide  awake  with  glee, 
Gazed  on  the  golden,  crown-surmounted  Mace 
Pillowed  serene  before  the  Speaker's  Chair; 

66 


PARLIAMENT   OF   THE   AGES 

Then  marked,  in  high-built  panes,  the  Kings  gleam  clear, 

The  Lion-shield,  the  mystic  Unicorn, 

The  scrolls,  the  mottoes,  "For  my  God  and  Right" 

And  "Evil  be  to  him  who  evil  thinks" 

All  seemed  the  racial  Soul  transfigured  there, 

Ages  and  Ages  old,  yet  scarcely  born, 

So  future-glorious,  past  all  dreaming,  looms 

The  Voluntary  Empire  of  The  Blood, 

Monarchical,  Republican,  all 's  one, 

With  Vikings  rushing  to  the  beacon's  flare 

As  long  as  winds  shall  blow  and  waters  run. 


67 


KING   VOLSUNG   AND    THE   SKALD 


KING  VOLSUNG  AND  THE  SKALD 

He  sang  on  the  Heath  of  the  Volsungs, 
Mid  Volsung  common  men, 
Shepherds,  chafferers,  delvers, 
And  fowlers  of  the  fen. 
The  beaters  of  the  anvil. 
Wights  who  mined  the  ore, 
Tamers  of  the  horsekind, 
And  fishers  from  the  shore. 

Tall  through  the  press  strode  Sigmund, 

Lord-warden  of  the  Peace, 

While,  shrilling  fierce,  the  blood  song 

Rang  to  the  throng's  increase, 

And  some  lips  smiled  the  pleasure 

Of  Lynxes  scenting  prey. 

And  some  brows  frowned  the  anger 

That  holds  the  wolf  at  bay. 

"Be  dumb,  O  Skald!"  spoke  Sigmund, 
"Thou  singst  a  troublous  song, — 
The  King  of  the  kindly  Volsungs 
Shall  judge  thee  right  or  wrong." 
Then  slow  to  the  Hall  of  The  Mighty, 
And  silently  under  its  roof, 
Flowed  the  host  of  the  mid-world  people 
To  hear  the  thing  at  proof. 

On  the  High-seat  shone  King  Volsung, 
His  Champions  gleamed  anear, 
And  the  voice  of  lordly  Sigmund 
Came  welcome  to  his  ear:  — 
"Father,  King  and  Judger, 
Now  tell  me  what  to  do. 
This  Skald  divides  thy  people  — 
Is  praise  or  death  his  due  ? " 
68 


KING   VOLSUNG   AND   THE   SKALD 

"Son  Sigmund,  tell  thy  story, 
And  whence  the  stranger  came"; 

"I  found  him  chanting  on  the  Heath, 
And  no  man  knows  his  name. 
Some  think  him  even  as  Baldur 
Come  back  to  bless  the  Earth, 
And  some  hear  in  his  blood  song 
The  Dwarf-kind's  cruel  mirth." 

Then  softly  laughed  King  Volsung, 
Yet  pierced  so  keen  his  eyes 
Men  deemed  he  saw  the  stranger 
As  naked  from  disguise. 
"O  Skald!"  he  spoke,  "fear  nothing; 
Though  thou  be  Dwarf  or  Elf 
Come  back  to  trouble  mankind. 
Sing  up,  and  be  thyself." 

The  stranger  eyed  the  Father 
As  one  who  works  a  spell. 
And  from  the  board  his  fingers 
Seized  a  sounding  shell; 
His  touches  thrilled  its  edjres. 
He  sang,  to  words  all  changed, 
A  strain  the  brown  seafarers 
Oft  chanted  where  they  ranged. 

Then  round  about  the  High-seat, 
And  through  the  huge-built  Hall, 
Did  all  men  deem  they  listened 
To  waves  whelm  up  and  fall; 
They  heard  the  clash  and  clatter 
Of  shield-hung  longships'  sides. 
Straining  sails  gale-bellied. 
The  snarl  of  racing  tides. 

While,  foul  in  seamen's  nostrils 
Wallowing  bilges  stank 
69 


KING   VOLSUNG   AND   THE   SKALD 

Of  ale  and  meal  long  sea-borne, 
Musty,  wormy,  rank; 
Yet,  half  a-rot  with  scurvy, 
They  toppled  up  once  more 
To  hail  the  enchanted  looming 
Of  some  unheard-of  shore. 

Out  spoke  the  gracious  Volsung,  — 
"The  chant  is  good  to  me 
That  draws  my  shoremen  closer 
To  their  brothers  of  the  sea. 
And  now,  O  Skald,  I  charge  thee 
To  voice  what  song  most  brings 
Joy  to  the  hearts  of  heroes. 
And  men  of  worth  and  Kings." 

The  stranger  pondered,  staring 
So  long  on  Volsung's  Pride 
That  soft-hand  chafFerers  clamored :  — 
"Sing  what  thou  sangst  outside  — 
The  song  that  stirred  our  pulses 
As  if  through  war-horn  blown. 
Thy  chant  of  swords  and  corpses, 
And  blood  on  grass  bestrov^^n. 
Hearing,  we  felt  as  Champions, 
Our  foes  seemed  beaten  sore, 
And  fierce  in  exultation 
We  saw  them  free  no  more." 

Then,  nearing  close  to  Volsung, 
The  singer  whispered, "King, 
Thou  knowst  how  wild  the  feeble 
Relish  a  deathful  thing; 
Here  came  I  hungry,  seeking 
The  means  for  rest  and  meat  — 
They  love  to  dream  them  heroes. 
And  praise  to  Skalds  is  sweet. 
But  now,  O  Volsung  Father, 
70 


KING   VOLSUNG   AND   THE   SKALD 

I  read  thy  kingly  heart, 

And  I  know  the  battle-mighty 

From  war-lust  dwell  apart." 

Frowned  dark  the  lordly  Volsung,  — 
"Shame  drowneth  as  a  flood 
The  fame  of  every  singer 
Who  urgeth  men  to  blood. 
The  scorn  of  sworded  heroes 
Is  on  the  swordless  wight 
Who  stirs  the  weak  to  clamor 
That  sends  the  strong  to  fight; 
Behold,  all  blades  of  battle 
Around  my  shield-hung  wall 
Are  hid  in  sheath,  lest  baleful 
Their  deadly  gleams  should  fall; 
And  yet  thy  plea  shall  save  thee 
If  now  thou  singst  what  brings 
Most  joy  to  hearts  of  heroes. 
And  men  of  worth,  and  Kings." 

Then  beamed  so  kind  the  stranger, 
It  seemed  that  Baldur  there 
Had  rose  from  Niflheim's  torpor 
To  bless  the  shining  air; 
He  grasped  an  iron  hammer. 
He  tinkled  on  the  steel, 
And  he  sang  the  ancient  stithy 
Laboring  mankind's  weal. 

Spike  and  chain  and  crowbar, 
Axes,  bolts,  and  ploughs. 
Mallet,  wedge,  and  hammer. 
Bonds  to  stiffen  prows. 
Every  shape  of  iron 
Listeners  saw  anew. 
For  the  splendor  of  the  labor 
Rang  the  song-craft  through. 

71 


KING   VOLSUNG  AND   THE   SKALD 

So  changed  the  tinkled  measure 
That  looms  rocked  in  the  Hall, 
Spindles  twirled,  and  shuttles 
Flew  'twixt  wall  and  wall,  — 
Cloth  for  street  and  temple, 
Cloth  for  sea  and  wold, 
And  the  weavers'  patient  pleasure 
Wove  in  every  fold. 


Through  all  Man's  craft  and  labor 
The  runic  rhythm  changed. 
As  Valorous  Endeavor 
All  useful  works  it  ranged; 
And  the  Idler  was  the  Dastard, 
And  the  Pleasure-seeker's  joy 
More  weak,  and  far  more  witless 
Than  the  pastime  of  a  boy. 

"O  Skald,"  spoke  gladdened  Volsung, 
"Thou  sangst  the  truest  song! 
It  endeth  and  amendeth 
Labor's  ancient  wrong; 
Its  glory  none  had  chanted. 
Its  pride  no  ear  had  heard, 
For  the  toiling  held  the  toiler 
From  the  finding  of  the  Word. 
Yet  none,  save  to  that  throbbing 
My  harp  hath  in  its  strings, 
Can  sing  what  most  joys  heroes. 
And  men  of  worth,  and  Kings." 

He  took  the  harp  of  Volsung, 
His  fingers  lingered  slow, 
He  sang  of  Love  commingled 
With  Work,  and  Joy,  and  Woe,  — 
The  lover's  love  for  lover, 
The  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 
The  father  love  for  children, 

72 


KING   VOLSUNG   AND   THE   SKALD 

The  wifely  true-heart's  pride, 
Brother's  love  for  brother, 
Love  of  friend  for  friend, 
The  yearning,  patient  mother  love 
That  hath  no  stint  nor  end; 
And,  even  as  all  World-things 
Forth  from  the  World-tree  start, 
He  sang  all  love  forever  flows 
Back  to  All-father's  heart. 

King  Volsung  and  his  heroes, 

All  people  round  the  Hall, 

Yearned  and  flushed  and  joyed  and  wept 

As  if  one  soul  swayed  all. 

None  saw  the  singer  vanish. 

So  blinding  was  his  spell;  — 

And  was  he  of  the  Gods,  or  Dwarfs, 

King  Volsung  would  not  tell. 


73 


BALLADS,  LYRICS,  MEDITATIONS 


THUNDERCHILD'S  LAMENT 

When  the  years  grew  worse,  and  the  tribe  longed  sore 
For  a  kinsman  bred  to  the  white  man's  lore, 
To  the  Mission  School  they  sent  forth  me 
From  the  hunting  life  and  the  skin  tepee. 

In  the  Mission  School  eight  years  I  wrought 
Till  my  heart  grew  strange  to  its  boyhood's  thought, 
Then  the  white  men  sent  me  forth  from  their  ways 
To  the  Blackfoot  lodge  and  the  roving  days. 

"He  tells  of  their  God,"  said  the  Chiefs  when  I  spake, 
"But  naught  of  the  magic  our  foemen  make, 
'T  is  a  Blackfoot  heart  with  a  white  man's  fear, 
And  all  skill  forgot  that  could  help  him  here." 

For  the  Mission  Priest  had  bent  my  will 
From  the  art  to  steal  and  the  mind  to  kill. 
Then  out  from  the  life  I  had  learned  sent  me 
To  the  hungry  plain  and  the  dim  tepee. 

When  the  moon  of  March  was  great  and  round, 
No  meat  for  my  father's  teeth  I  found ; 
When  the  moon  of  March  was  curved  and  thin. 
No  meat  for  his  life  could  my  hunting  win. 

Wide  went  the  tracks  of  my  snowshoe  mesh, 

Deep  was  the  white,  and  it  still  fell  fresh 

Far  in  the  foothills,  far  on  the  plain. 

Where  I  searched  for  the  elk  and  the  grouse  in  vain. 

In  the  Lodge  lay  my  father,  grim  in  the  smoke, 
His  eyes  pierced  mine  as  the  gray  dawn  broke, 

77 


THUNDERCHILD'S   LAMENT 

He  gnawed  on  the  edge  of  the  buffalo  hide, 
And  I  must  be  accurst  if  my  father  died. 

He  spoke  with  wail:  "In  the  famine  year 

When  my  father  starved  as  I  starve  here, 

Was  my  heart  like  the  squaw's  who  has  fear  to  slay 

'Mongst  the  herds  of  the  white  man  far  away  ? " 

From  the  Mission  School  they  sent  forth  me 
To  the  gaunt,  wild  life  of  the  dark  tepee  ; 
With  the  fear  to  steal,  and  the  dread  to  kill. 
And  the  love  of  Christ  they  had  bent  my  will. 

But  my  father  gnawed  on  the  buffalo  hide;  — 
Toward  the  sunrise  trod  my  snowshoe  stride, 
Straight  to  the  white  man's  herd  it  led. 
Till  the  sun  sank  down  at  my  back  in  red. 

Next  dawn  was  bleak  when  I  slew  the  steer, 
I  ate  of  the  raw,  and  it  gave  me  cheer; 
So  I  set  my  feet  in  the  track  once  more. 
With  my  father's  life  in  the  meat  I  bore. 

Far  strode  the  herder,  fast  on  my  trail; 
Noon  was  high  when  I  heard  his  hail; 
I  fled  in  fear,  but  my  feet  moved  slow. 
For  the  load  I  shouldered  sank  them  low. 

Then  I  heard  no  sound  but  the  creak  and  clack 
Of  his  snowshoes  treading  my  snowshoe  track. 
And  I  saw  never  help  in  plain  or  sky 
Save  that  he  should  die  or  my  father  die. 

The  Mission  Priest  had  broke  my  will 
With  the  curse  on  him  who  blood  would  spill. 
But  my  father  starved  in  the  black  tepee. 
And  the  cry  of  his  starving  shrieked  to  me. 

78 


THUNDERCHILD'S   LAMENT 

The  white  world  reeled  to  its  cloudy  rim, 

The  plain  reeled  red  as  I  knelt  by  him,  — 

Oh,  the  spot  in  the  snow,  how  it  pulsed  and  grew, 

How  it  cried  from  the  mid-white  up  to  the  blue! 

For  the  Mission  Priest  had  sent  forth  me 
To  the  wants  and  deeds  of  the  wild  tepee. 
Yet  the  fear  of  God's  strong  curse  fulfilled. 
Cried  with  the  blood  that  would  not  be  stilled. 

They  found  me  not  while  the  year  was  green 
And  the  rose  blew  sweet  where  the  stain  had  been. 
They  found  me  not  when  the  fall-flowers  flare, 
But  the  red  in  the  snow  was  ever  there. 

To  the  Jail  I  fled  from  the  safe  tepee, 
And  the  Mission  Priest  will  send  forth  me, 
A  Blackfoot  soul  cleansed  white  from  stain  — 
Yet  never  the  red  spot  fades  from  the  plain. 

It  glares  in  my  eyes  when  sunbeams  fall 
Through  the  iron  grate  of  my  stone-gray  wall, 
And  I  see,  through  starlight,  foxes  go 
To  track  and  to  taste  of  the  ruddy  snow. 


79 


THE   MANDAN    PRIEST 
THE  MANDAN  PRIEST 

They  call  me  now  the  Indian  Priest, 
Their  fathers'  fathers  did  not  so, 
The  very  Mandan  name  hath  ceased 
From  speech  since  fifty  years  ago; 
I  am  so  old  my  fingers  fail 
My  trembling  rosary  beads  to  tell, 
Yet  all  my  years  do  not  avail 
My  Mandan  memories  to  quell. 

The  whole  flat  world  I  've  seen  how  changed 
Within  my  lifetime's  hundred  years; 
O'er  plains  where  herding  buffalo  ranged 
Came  strange  new  grass  with  white  men's  steers, 
The  lowing  cattle  passed  as  dreams, 
Their  pastures  reared  a  farmer  race. 
Now  city  windows  flash  their  gleams 
Nigh  our  old  Monastery's  place. 

The  Prior  gives  to  me  no  more 

Even  a  task  of  inward  praise, 

The  Brethren  bear  me  through  our  door 

To  bask  me  here  on  summer  days; 

I  am  so  old  I  cannot  kneel, 

I  cannot  hear,  I  cannot  see. 

Often  I  wonder  if  I  feel 

The  very  sunbeams  warming  me. 

Yet  do  I  watch  the  Mandan  dogs 
And  Mandan  ponies  slain  for  meat 
That  year  the  squaws  chewed  snakes  and  frogs 
That  babes  might  tug  a  living  teat. 
And  Mandan  braves,  in  daylight  dance. 
Gashed  side  and  arm  and  painted  breast, 
Praying  The  Manitou  might  trance 
No  more  the  buffalo  from  their  quest. 

80 


THE   M  AND  AN   PRIEST 

A  circled  plain  all  horse-high  grassed 

Our  mounting  scouts  beheld  at  dawn, 

They  saw  naught  else  though  far  they  passed 

Apart  before  the  sun  was  gone; 

Each  night's  ride  back  through  starlit  lanes 

They  saw  the  Tepee  sparks  ascend, 

And  hoped,  and  sniffed,  and  knew  their  pains 

Of  famine  had  not  yet  an  end. 

Alone  within  his  magic  tent 
The  new-made  Midi  wrought  the  spell 
That  soothed  Life's  Master  to  relent 
In  years  the  Old  remembered  well. 
He  cried,  —  "The  Mission  Priests  have  wreaked 
Some  curse  that  balks  the  Ancient  Art!"  — 
"Thou  useless  Fool,"  the  war-chief  shrieked, 
And  sped  the  knife-thrust  to  his  heart. 

With  that,  "  What  comes  ?  "  my  mother  screamed 
How  quick  the  squatted  braves  arose! 
Far  in  the  south  the  tallest  deemed 
He  saw  the  flight  of  up-scared  crows; 
Above  the  horse-high  grass  came  slow 
A  lifted  Cross,  a  tonsured  head,  — 
And  what  the  meaning  none  could  know 
Until  the  black-robed  rider  said  :  — 

"Mandans,  I  bear  our  Mission's  word, — 
Your  children,  brought  to  us,  shall  eat." 
Scarce  had  the  fierce  young  War-chief  heard 
Ere  fell  the  Blackrobe  from  his  seat; 
The  Chief  held  high  the  reeking  knife, 
He  frowned  about  the  Woman's  Ring, 
And  yet  my  mother's  face  took  life 
Anew  in  pondering  the  thing. 

She  stole  at  night  the  dead  Priest's  scrip. 
His  meagre  wallet's  hard-baked  food, 

8i 


THE   MANDAN   PRIEST 

His  Crucifix,  his  waist-rope  strip 
All  blackened  with  his  martyr  blood; 
Through  dark,  day-hidden,  hand  in  hand, 
We  traced  his  trail  for  ninety  mile. 
She  starved  herself  that  I  might  stand, 
She  spoke  me  comfort  all  the  while :  — 
'So  shalt  thou  live,  my  little  son, 
The  white  mens  magic  shalt  thou  learn, 
And  when  the  hungry  moons  are  run. 
Be  sure  thy  mother  shall  return  ; 
Oh,  sweet  my  joy  when,  come  again, 
I  find  thy  Mandan  heart  untamed. 
As  fits  a  warrior  of  the  plain. 
That  I,  thy  mother,  be  not  shamed. ^^ 

She  left  me  while  the  black-robed  men 
Blest  and  beseeched  her  sore  to  stay; 
No  voice  hath  told  my  heart  since  then 
How  fared  my  mother's  backward  way. 
Years,  years  within  the  Mission  School, 
By  love,  by  prayer  they  gained  my  heart; 
It  held  me  to  Our  Order's  rule. 
From  all  the  Mandan  life  apart. 

From  tribe  to  tribe,  through  sixty  years. 
The  Mandan  Priest  for  Christ  he  wrought, 
And  many  an  Indian  heart  to  tears. 
And  many  a  soul  to  God  he  brought; 
Yet  do  I  hear  my  mother's  voice 
Soft  lingering  round  her  little  son. 
And,  O  dear  Lord,  dost  Thou  rejoice 
In  all  my  mother's  child  hath  done  ? 


82 


CHIEF   NEPOQUAN'S   LAMENT 

CHIEF  NEPOQUAN'S  LAMENT 

(salteaux-cree) 

The  Judge  doomed  me,  —  "  At  Friday  noon  —  hanged  by 

the  neck  till  dead  ' ; 
But  can  he  catch  the  diving  loon  or  hang  the  spirit  fled  ? 

When  young  I  thought  the  white  man  just,  a  white  Chief's 

heart  most  wise; 
It  was  where  snow  lay  dry  as  dust  beneath  the  far  north 

skies, 
The  way  was  hungry,  cold,  and  long,  yet  we  could  hunt  no 

more. 
Since  madness  came  on  one  so  strong  he  must  be  held  by 

four; 
Three  days  with  him  we  camped  in  fast,  his  blood  we  would 

not  shed, 
It  seemed  the  Fiend  in  him  would  last  until  we  all  were 

dead. 

John  Franklin's  doctor  was  our  chief;  when  sure  the  man 

was  mad 
He  shot  him  for  his  men's  relief,  but  first  he  spoke  full 

sad, 

"My  men,  this  man  your  Chief  must  kill,  though  hard  the 

duty  be  ; 
Let  God  and  ye  judge  if  I  spill  this  blood  in  cruelty.'' 

It  is  long  seventy  years  since  then,  for  I  am  wondrous 

old, 
My  wrinkled  fingers  tremble  when  they  draw  the  noose  they 

hold, 
Yet  shall  they  twist  it  till  I  choke  —  and  may  my  blood  be 

strong 
Upon  the  red-coat  Judge  who  spoke  what  crazed  my  heart 

with  wrong. 

83 


CHIEF   NEPOQUAN'S   LAMENT 

I  told  him  truth;  —  the  squaw  she  craved  no  more  of  drink 

or  meat 
After  her  first-born  died,  she  raved  forever  on  her  feet 
Till  down  she  fell;  there  dead  she  lay  till  dark  came  on  with 

snow; 
Then  rose  the  Shape  to  stalk  away,  because  a  Wendigo 
Had  entered  in  the  corpse  to  take  it  far  within  the  Wood 
And  use  the  woman  Form  to  slake  its  endless  thirst  for  blood, 
Stealing  on  Man  and  Beast  alike,  scaring  afar  the  game 
In  terror  lest  that  Demon  strike  which  bears  the  dreaded 

name. 

They  seized  the  Thing;  they  knew  our  Law;  it  says  "A 

hunting  band 
Shall  bring  the  crazy  Brave  or  Squaw  beneath  the  Chiefs  own 

hand." 

That  band  was  small,  its  wigwams  three,  the  Spring  began  to 

stir. 
It  was  the  moon  when  wild  things  be  clad  in  their  richest  fur; 
The  Brave  who  leaves  his  traps  that  moon  leaves  there  his 

chance  to  thrive. 
Yet  did  those  law-abiders  soon  tie  down  that  Shape  alive 
To  sled  it  over  forest  floor,  and  over  rocky  hills, 
And  drag  it  to  my  wigwam  door,  that  I  might  end  their  ills. 
To  me  they  spoke,  —  "Our  part  is  done  —  we  marched  in 

fear  five  days  ; 
Tou  are  our  Chief,  the  chosen  one  to  set  the  noose  that  slays." 

The  Squaw  had  been  my  daughter's  child,  it  seemed  a  pass- 
ing breeze 

Since  she  a  round-eyed  babbler  smiled  in  play  about  my 
knees. 

To  hear  the  Demon  howl  her  tones  my  heart  of  hearts  was 
sore. 

At  times  I  hoped  that  in  the  moans  herself  came  back  once 
more. 

I  wrought  for  her  three  days;  I  laid  good  medicine  all  about 

84 


CHIEF   NEPOQUAN'S   LAMENT 

To  make  the  Wendigo  afraid,  and  fright  that  Devil  out; 
And  oftentimes  she  lay  as  dead,  and  often  rose  my  hope 
That  from  her  Shape  the  fiend  had  fled,  to  shun  the  stran- 
gler's  rope. 

My  Band  had  twenty-eight  to  feed,  our  hunters  were  but  five 

To  chase  the  deer,  that  none  might  need  of  meat  to  keep 
alive; 

Yet  three  by  night  and  two  by  day  must  watch  the  seeming 
squaw. 

Whose  form  the  Fiend  would  steal  away  —  such  is  the 
Salteaux  law; 

Our  meat  was  gone  the  second  night,  no  man  could  hunt- 
ing go, 

And,  when  my  people  starved,  their  fright  grew  wild  with 
hunger's  woe. 

"  We  starve,  we  die,  O  Chief  !  "  they  cried,  "unless  the  Thing 

shall  choke" ; 
So  round  its  neck  the  noose  I  plied  within  my  wigwam  smoke, 
Of  that  the  Stranglers'  eyes  saw  naught  while  outside  ends 

they  drew; 
I  fled  before  they  pulled  them  taut  —  so  none  had  blood  to 

rue. 
Yet  day  or  night  I  found  no  rest,  for  when  I  fell  asleep 
The  round-eyed  babbler's  fingers  prest  my  eyes  to  wake  and 

weep. 

The  talk  about  my  justice  went  so  far  the  red-coat  band 
Sledged  for  a  moon,  and  reached  my  tent,  and  brought  me 
where  I  stand. 

The  red-coat  Judge  spoke,  —  "Friday  noon  —  hanged  by 

the  neck  till  dead  "  ; 
But  can  he  catch  the  diving  loon  or  seize  the  spirit  fled  ? 

I  've  seen  the  Salteaux  babes  grow  gray  since  first  my  years 
were  old, 

85 


CHIEF   NEPOQUAN'S   LAMENT 

My  wrinkled  fingers  shake  and  sway  to  draw  the  noose  they 

hold, 
Yet  do  they  work   the   Salteaux    rule,  I  die  by  Salteaux 

thong, 
And  here  defy  the  judging  fool  who  crazed  my  heart  with 

wrong. 


86 


RIDGEWAY   FIGHT 

RIDGEWAY  FIGHT 

(1866) 

(iRISH-CANADIAN   BALLAd) 

This  tale  is  told  by  one  so  old  that  all  she  loved  are  dead, 
Tet  faintly  glows  the  Irish  rose  where  once  her  cheeks  were  red. 

My  boy  was  born  where  fruit  and  corn,  widespread  byWel- 

land's  shore, 
Sway  in  the  moaning  monotone  from  far  Niagara's  roar. 
His  father's   eyes  on   England's   skies   looked   first  when 

brought  to  birth, 
And  strong  the  stride  of  manful  pride  he  had  from  English 

worth. 
My  own  good  name  hath  Irish  fame,  my  heart  is  Erin's  heart. 
My  boy  soon  learned  how  hot  it  burned  to  take  Old  Ireland's 

part. 

Yet  his  young  life  was  free  from  strife  'twixt  Saxon  blood  and 

Celt, 
Because  so  kind  his  father's  mind  leaned  unto  all  I  felt, 
Whose  generous  way  was  oft  to  say,  "I  love  my  Irish  rose; 
That  hearts  must  stand  for  native  land  the  heart  of  England 

knows." 
And  swift  my  voice  would  then  rejoice,  "Our  Irish  hearts 

but  crave 
That  England  be  as  you  to  me,  and  not  as  Lord  to  Slave." 

Our  threefold  cord  the  loving  Lord  strengthened  each  year 

anew. 
Till  hope  her  time  had  come  to  prime  once  more  in  Ireland 

grew ; 
Twas  in  the  year  when  Azrael's  spear  had  smote  the  fighting 

South 
My  yearning  stirred  to  hear  the  word   that  passed  from 

mouth  to  mouth :  — 

87 


RIDGEWAY   FIGHT 

"Our  blood  can  boast  in  either  host  of  the  battle-weary 
States, 

Sons  who  have  fought  as  heroes  ought  against  and  for  the 
Fates ; 

Their  hands  and  eyes  in  War  are  wise,  their  hearts  to  Ire- 
land true. 

And  hath  not  God  made  them  His  rod  to  do  what  He  would 
do  r 

If  once  they  stand  on  Irish  land  against  her  ancient 
wrong. 

Then  sorrows  sighed  since  freedom  died  shall  end  in  Erin's 
song." 

In  that  strange  year  my  son  knew  clear  what  longing  swelled 

my  heart. 
While  yet  the  thought  his  father  taught  seemed  scarce  from 

mine  apart; 
So  his  young  mind  to  this  inclined,  "Freedom  is  Ireland's 

right, 
I  wish  her  well  though  she  rebel  against  free  England's 

might." 

When  so  I  heard  him  speak  that  word,  how  could  my  eyes 

but  shine  ? 
And  if  it  brought  his  father  aught  of  grief  he  made  no 

sign, 
But  uttered  grave,  "May  Heaven  save  your  mother's  race 

from  pain, 
And  mine  from  blood  spilt  as  a  flood  that  England's  law  may 

reign." 

So  strong  they  be  who  hold  the  sea  that  when  that  year  was 

past, 
Erin  no  more  could  hope  her  shore  might  hear  her  bugle 

blast; 
Yet  did  her  rage  the  strife  to  wage  bring  this  strange  thought 

to  birth, 
"  My  sons,  belike,  may  England  strike  upon  Canadian  earth." 

88 


RIDGEWAY   FIGHT 

When  first  we  heard  that  raving  word  my  son  laughed  out  in 

scorn, — 
"A  Fool's  parade  'twere  to  invade  the  soil  where  I  was 

born! 
Here  Irish  folk  have  felt  no  yoke,  our  equal  laws  they  share, 
'T  is  madness  starts  in  Irish  hearts  that  give  such  talk  to 

air!" 

Yet  when  next  June  the  birds  their  tune  through  Welland 

orchards  poured, 
Upon  the  land  a  Fenian  band  came  seeking  England's  sword. 

In  student's  gown  Toronto  town  then  held  my  darling  son, 
For  Youth  must  roam  afar  from  home  lest  learning  be  not 

won. 
Within  his    breast  like  fire  prest  the  urging,  "Take  your 

stand  — 
Haste  to  obey  —  no  hour  delay  —  defend  your  native  land  — 
Tour  true-born  heart  —  your  natural  part  —  your  Country^ s 

cause  maintain  — 
Were  foemen  come  with  England's  drum  your  duty  were  as 

plain." 

Ere  set  of  sun  he  shouldered  gun  with  Rifles  of  the  Queen, 
Nor  deemed  it  strange  in  green  to  range  against  the  flag  of 
green. 

"Near  Ridgeway  you  shall  rendezvous,"  those  volunteers 

were  told, 
"Where  shall  be  sent  a  regiment  of  regulars  famed  of  old; 
Munitions   they   shall   bring  your  way  —  march   ye   with 

twenty  rounds  — 
Your  pouches  full  for  trigger  pull  shall  be  when  battle 

sounds." 

That  regiment  ?  Oh,  yes,  'twas  sent,  —  but  Irish  was  its  soul, 
Its  veterans  dragged  their  feet  and  lagged  sullen  beyond 
control ; 

89 


RIDGEWAY   FIGHT 

Though  undismayed,  pretence  they  laid  that  heat  and  sun- 
stroke scared; 

Who  blames  their  heart  to  shun  a  part  against  the  Blood 
they  shared  ? 

Three  miles  of  march  their  Colonel's  starch  melted  so  soft 
he  lay 

Quartered  for  night  in  broad  daylight,  —  and  Ridgeway 
leagues  away. 

Oh,  blossomed  trees  of  Welland  leas,  how  could  ye  bloom 

so  fair 
With  fragrant  joy  when  on  my  boy  lay  such  a  load  of  care  ? 
For  in  his  heart  the  Irish  part  dreamed  /  must  suffer  woe 
Whene'er  I  learned  my  son  had  turned  his  hand  against  that 

foe. 
And    one,  far  born  o'er  seas,  that  morn  had  called  him 

"Traitor  foul" 
Because  he  spoke  of  Ireland's  yoke,  and  met  the  Cockney 

scowl 
With,  "Oh,  that  earth  which  gave  me  birth  should  see 

Canadians  slain 
As  if  in  fight  that  England's  might  should  trample  Ireland's 

pam! 

Yet  did  his  will  set  hard  to  kill  when  once  the  bullets  flew, 
And  by  his  side  the  comrade  died  whom  all  his  life  he  knew; 
Then  wroth  he  fought,  taking  no  thought  beyond  that  field 

of  strife 
Where  every  lead  his  rifle  sped  searched  for  an  Irish  life. 

Their  twenty  rounds  were  spent  —  no  sounds  of  regulars 
marching  true 

To  keep  the  pledge  by  point  and  edge  to  reach  the  rendez- 
vous. 

With  them  not  nigh  a  fresh  supply  of  cartridge  ours  must 
lack; 

Though  few  men  quailed  when  pouches  failed  they  drew  to 
Ridgeway  back. 

90 


RIDGEWAY   FIGHT 

But  had  my  son  his  battle  done  ?  Not  he ;  but  bitter  swore,  — • 
"Better  to  lie  beneath  this  sky  with  him  who  breathes  no 

more 
Than  native  feet  should  here  retreat."  He  fixed  his  bayonet 

steel  — 
And  By  the  Dead  who  there  had  bled,  its  point  the  foe  should 

feel! 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "you  'traitored'  me.   Come  now  and 

play  the  game 
Up  to  the  end,  my  Cockney  friend,  who  fights  in  England's 

name! 

From  South  and  North  alike  sprung  forth  to  lift  the  Sun- 
burst's light. 

Those  Fenians  came  from  fields  of  fame,  and  knew  all  ways 
of  Fight ; 

So  when  alone  his  bayonet  shone,  there  many  a  veteran 
breath 

Spoke,  —  "Here  comes  one  who  scorns  the  sun  and  volun- 
teers for  Death! 

By  Heaven,  the  pride  that's  in  his  stride!  The  lad's  too 
young  to  kill; 

Now  test  him  fair,  yet  try  to  spare  his  life  against  his 
will." 

For  still  the  Brave  will  heroes  save.  God  bless  the  Irish 
voice. 

Which  never  yet  did  once  forget  in  valor  to  rejoice ! 

As  in  he  ran  he  chose  his  man  with  such  a  glint  of  eye 
That  all  knew  there  how  well  the  stare  meant  Tou  or  I  shall 

die  ; 
But  when  his  steel  with  One  would  deal,  five  clashed  to 

check  the  thrust, 
And  yet  his  tierce  delivered  fierce  brought  down  his  man  to 

dust 
Ere  other  five  took  him  alive,  —  for  live  they  must  who 

must. 

91 


RIDGEWAY   FIGHT 

O'Neil  he  cried  in  warlike  pride,  —  "Well  done,  you  English 

boy! 
All  soldiers  here  rouse  up  the  cheer,  —  God  give  his  mother 

py' 

But  down  he  sank,  and  sore  he  drank  of  shame  to  be  so 

weak 
That  when  he  heard  that  Irish  word  the  tears  ran  down  his 

cheek. 
Yet  why  he  wept  the  secret  kept  —  so  strong  his  nature's 

pride. 
And  no  man  there  guessed   Erin's  share  in  him  who  had 

defied. 

Their  raid  was  past,  they  hurried  fast  to  gain  a  friendly 

shore, 
They  left  him  there  as  free  as  air  —  yet,  from  afar,  once 

more 
They  cheered  the  lad  who  'd  strode  as  glad  to  charge  their 

line  alone. 
Then  long  he  stood  in  dream,  he  could  hear  who  but  me  in 

moan 
That  Ireland's  day  had  passed   away,  and  that  my  own 

son's  heart 
Had  chose  the  lot  to  fire  the  shot  against  sad  Erin's  part. 

But  when  he  came  to  take  my  blame  I  kissed  him  fond,  and 

cried,  — 
"Son  of  my  love,  't  is  God  above  makes  dear  our  Country's 

side; 
Child  of  this  Land,  no  man  can  stand  more  true  to  parent's 

worth 
Than  when  his  life  is  pledged  in  strife  to  guard  his  native 

earth ; 
Let  who  might  come  with  outland  drum,  your  duty  were  as 

plain." 
Dear  long-dead  boy,  thy  -flush  of  joy  delights  my  soul  again  I 


92 


DAY   DREAM 


DAY  DREAM 


When  high  above  the  busy  street 
Some  hidden  voice  poured  Mary's  song, 
Oh,  then  my  soul  forgot  the  beat 
And  tumult  of  the  city's  throng. 
And  bells  and  voices  murmured  low. 
Blent  to  a  dreamy  monotone 
That  chimed  and  changed  in  mystic  flow. 
And  wove  a  spell  for  me  alone. 

The  towering  blocks  no  more  were  there. 
No  longer  pressed  the  crowd  around, 
All  freely  roamed  a  magic  air 
Within  a  vast  horizon's  bound; 
Beneath  a  sky  of  lucent  gray 
Far  stretched  the  circled  northern  plain, 
Wild  sunflowers  decked  a  prairie  gay, 
And  one  dear  autumn  came  again. 

Before  me  went  a  winsome  maid. 
And  oh  the  mien  with  which  she  stept 
Her  long  brown  hair  without  a  braid 
Concealed  the  shoulders  that  it  swept; 
And,  glancing  backward,  me  she  gave 
The  smile  so  angel  kind,  so  wise  — 
That  look  of  love,  those  eyes  so  grave, 
Once  made  my  earthly  Paradise. 

Divinely  on  my  darling  went. 
The  wild  flowers  leaning  from  her  tread, 
Enrapt  I  followed  on  intent. 
Till,  ah,  the  gracious  vision  fled; 
The  plain  gave  place  to  blocks  of  gray, 
The  sunlit  Heaven  to  murky  cloud, 
Staring  I  stood  in  common  day, 
And  never  knew  the  street  so  loud. 
93 


THE    CANADIAN   ROSSIGNOL 

THE  CANADIAN  ROSSIGNOL 

(in  may) 

When  furrowed  fields  of  shaded  brown, 

And  emerald  meadows  spread  between, 
And  belfries  towering  from  the  town, 

All  blent  in  wavering  mists  are  seen; 
When  quickening  woods  with  freshening  hue 

Along  Mount  Royal  rolling  swell. 
When  winds  caress  and  May  is  new. 

Oh,  then  my  shy  bird  sings  so  well! 

Because  the  bloodroots  flock  so  white, 

And  blossoms  scent  the  wooing  air. 
And  mounds  with  trillium  flags  are  dight, 

And  dells  with  violets  frail  and  rare; 
Because  such  velvet  leaves  unclose. 

And  new-born  rills  all  chiming  ring. 
And  blue  the  sun-kissed  river  flows. 

My  timid  bird  is  forced  to  sing. 

A  joyful  flourish  lilted  clear. 

Four  notes,  then  fails  the  frolic  song. 
And  memories  of  a  sweeter  year 

The  wistful  cadences  prolong;  — 
"A  sweeter  year  —  Oh,  heart  too  sore  !  — 

/  cannot  sing  !  "  —  So  ends  the  lay. 
Long  silence.    Then  awakes  once  more 

His  song,  ecstatic  with  the  May. 


94 


THE   CANADIAN   ROSSIGNOL 

THE    CANADIAN    ROSSIGNOL 

(in  June) 

Prone  where  maples  widely  spread 
I  watch  the  far  blue  overhead, 
Where  little  pillowy  clouds  arise 
From  naught  to  die  before  my  eyes; 
Within  the  shade  a  pleasant  rout 
Of  dallying  zephyrs  steal  about; 
Lazily  as  moves  the  day 
Odors  float  and  faint  away 
From  roses  yellow,  red,  and  white, 
That  prank  yon  garden  with  delight; 
Round  which  the  locust  blossoms  swing. 
And  some  late  lilacs  droop  for  spring. 
Anon  swells  up  a  dubious  breeze, 
Stirring  the  half-reluctant  trees, 
Then,  rising  to  a  mimic  gale. 
Ruffles  the  massy  oaks  to  pale. 
Till  spent  its  sudden  force,  once  more 
The  zephyrs  come  that  went  before; 
Now  silvery  poplars  shivering  stand, 
And  languid  lindens  waver  bland, 
Hemlock  traceries  scarcely  stir, 
All  the  pines  of  summer  purr. 
Hovering  butterflies  I  see. 
Full  of  business  shoots  the  bee. 
Straight  from  the  valley  is  his  flight 
Where  crowding  marbles  solemn  white 
Show  through  the  trees  and  mutely  tell 
How  there  the  low-laid  loved  rest  well. 
Half  hid  in  the  grasses  there 
Red  breast  thrushes  jump  and  stare, 
Sparrows  flutter  up  like  leaves 
Tossed  upon  the  wind  in  sheaves. 
Curve-winged  swallows  slant  and  slide 

95 


THE    CANADIAN    ROSSIGNOL 

O'er  the  graves  that  stretch  so  wide, 
Steady  crows  go  laboring  by  — 
Ha!  the  Rossignol  is  nigh! 

Rossignol,  why  will  you  sing, 
Though  lost  the  lovely  world  of  spring  ? 
'T  was  well  that  then  your  roulades  rang 
Of  joy,  despite  of  every  pang; 
But  now  the  sweet,  the  bliss  is  gone  — 
Nay,  now  the  summer  joy  is  on, 
And  lo,  the  foliage  and  the  bloom, 
The  fuller  life,  the  bluer  room, 
"T  was  this  the  sweet  spring  promised  me. 
Oh,  bird,  and  can  you  sing  so  free, 
Though  never  yet  the  roaming  wind 
Could  leave  earth's  countless  graves  behind  ? 
And  will  you  sing  when  summer  goes 
And  leaves  turn  brown  and  dies  the  rose  ? 
Oh,  then  how  brave  shall  Autumn  dress 
The  maple  out  with  gorgeousness  ! 
And  red-cheeked  apples  deck  the  green, 
And  corn  wave  tall  its  yellow  sheen. 
But,  bird,  bethink  you  well,  I  pray. 
Then  marches  winter  on  his  way. 

Ah,  winter  —  yes,  ah  yes  —  but  still. 
Hark  !  sweetly  chimes  the  summer  rill, 
And  joy  IS  here  and  life  is  strong. 
And  love  still  calls  upon  my  song. 
No,  Rossignol,  sing  not  that  strain. 
Triumphant  'spite  of  all  the  pain,  — 
She  cannot  hear  you,  Rossignol, 
She  does  not  pause  and  flush,  your  thrall. 
She  does  not  raise  that  slender  hand 
And,  poised,  lips  parted,  understand 
What  you  are  telling  of  the  years, 
Her  brown  eyes  soft  with  happy  tears, 
She  does  not  hear  a  note  of  all, 
Ah,  Rossignol,  ah,  Rossignol! 

96 


THE   CANADIAN   ROSSIGNOL 

But  skies  are  blue,  and  -flowers  bloomy 
And  roses  breathe  the  old  perfume. 
And  here  the  murmuring  of  the  trees 
In  all  of  lovelier  mysteries  — 
And  maybe  now  she  hears  thy  song 
Pouring  the  summer  rills  along, 
Listens  with  joy  that  still  to  me 
Remain  the  summer  time  and  thee. 


97 


SWEETEST   WHISTLE   EVER   BLEW 


SWEETEST  WHISTLE  EVER   BLEW 

A  DAY  when  April  willows  fringed  the  pool 

Of  fifty  years  ago  with  freshening  gold, 
Myself  came  trudging  from  the  country  school 

With  my  tall  grandsire  of  the  wars  of  old; 
His  peaceful  jack-knife  trimmed  a  ravished  shoot, 

Nicked  deep  the  green  and  hollowed  out  the  white, 
To  fashion  for  the  child  a  willow  flute. 
His  age  exulting  in  the  shrill  delight; 

"For  so,"  he  said,  "my  grandsire  made 
The  sweetest  whistles  ever  blew. 
When  I  and  he  were  you  and  me. 
And  all  the  world  was  new." 

To-day  in  mine  a  grandchild's  balmy  hand 
Eagerly  thrills  as  toward  the  pool  we  go, 
He  confident  that  never  sea  nor  land 

Wotted  of  wonders  more  than  grandsires  know; 
They  sail  all  seas,  explore  all  giants'  caves. 

Play  wolves  and  bears,  and  panthers  worse  by  far, 
Are  scalped  complacently  as  Indian  braves. 
And  little  boys  their  favored  comrades  are; 
By  grandpa's  lore,  well  learned  of  yore, 

I  hold  the  rank  I  most  esteem 

Of  dear  and  wise  in  Billy's  eyes. 

And  boast  the  pomp  supreme. 

Now,  blade  unclasped,  I  skirt  the  marge  to  choose 

One  withe  from  all  the  willow's  greening  throng. 
The  imperfect  branches  tacitly  refuse, 

To  clip  at  last  the  wand  without  a  prong; 
Its  knots  I  scan,  the  smoothest  reach  to  find, 

Cut  true  around  the  tender  bark  a  ring. 
Bevel  the  end,  and  artful  tip  the  rind, 

Draw  out  the  pith,  and  shape  the  chambered  thing 

98 


SWEETEST   WHISTLE   EVER   BLEW 

Exactly  so  as  long  ago, 

In  April  weather  sweet  as  this, 

My  grandsire  did  when  he  would  bid 
A  whistle  for  a  kiss. 

Now  Billy  snuggles  palm  again  in  mine, 

"Over  the  hills,"  he  blows,  "and  far  away." 
O  pipe  of  Arcady,  how  clear  and  fine 

Thy  single  note  salutes  the  yearning  day! 
The  breeze  in  branches  bare,  the  whistling  wing, 
The  subtle-bubbling  frogs,  the  bluebird's  call, 
The  quivering  sounds  of  ever-piercing  spring. 
That  one  thin  willow  note  attunes  them  all; 
And,  far  and  near  at  once,  I  hear 
The  sweetest  whistle  ever  blew, 
Lilting  again  the  olden  strain. 
And  all  the  world  is  new. 


99 


OUR    KINDERGARTNER 


OUR   KINDERGARTNER 

When  April's  tinge  was  on  the  fringe 

Of  willows  near  the  pool, 

She  dipt  their  shoots  to  fashion  flutes 

For  children  of  her  school; 

She  sloped  the  tips  to  suit  the  lips 

Of  rosiness  around, 

Drew  forth  the  pith  and  shaped  it  with 

The  chambers  of  the  sound. 

His  fancy  said:  "That  way  was  made 

The  magic  pipe  of  Pan, 

Which  crept  so  rare  upon  the  air 

It  crazed  a  listening  man." 

She  took  a  flute  and  shrilled  salute 

Of  Arcady  so  clear. 

He  felt  the  ring  and  chime  of  spring 

Thrilling  through  his  ear; 

A  mystic  sense  of  rapt  suspense 

Mingled  strange  with  all 

The  bubbling  frogs,  the  echoing  dogs, 

The  bluebirds'  mating  call. 

So  sweet  the  charm,  he  felt  no  harm, 

Yet  there  his  craze  began, 

With  every  note  her  pulsing  throat 

Blew  on  the  pipe  of  Pan. 


ICO 


ELEGY  FOR  "THE  DOCTOR" 
ELEGY  FOR  "THE  DOCTOR" 

On  the  Death  of  Dr.  W.  H.  Drummond 

Landlord,  take  a  double  fee,  and  let  the  banquet  slide. 
Send  the  viands,  send  the  wine  to  cheer  the  poor  outside, 
Turn  the  glasses  upside  down,  leave  the  room  alight. 
Let  the  flower-strown  tables  stand  glittering  all  the  night. 

Everybody's  friend  is  gone,  hushed  his  gentle  mirth, 
Sweeter-hearted  comrade  soul  none  shall  know  on  earth, 
Burly  body,  manly  mind,  upright  lifted  head, 
Viking  eyes  and  smiling  lips  —  Dr.  Di-ummond  'j  dead  ! 

For  the  Club,  for  the  feast,  and  for  the  busy  street 
Primal  natural  airs  he  brought,  oh,  so  fresh  and  sweet, 
Brattling  rivers,  gleaming  lakes,  wild-flower  forest  floors, 
To  heal  the  City's  weary  heart  with  balms  of  out-of-doors. 

But  where  the  campfire-litten  boughs  swing  swaying  over- 
head, 

And  wondering  wolf  and  lynx  shrill  wild  the  boding  of  their 
dread. 

And  strangely  through  the  moony  night  the  hooting  owlets 
roam. 

His  tones  would  yearn  in  gladsome  talk  about  the  doors  of 
Home. 

In  sympathy  with  every  pain  of  all  who  bear  the  yoke. 

There  was  a  natural  piety  in  all  he  wrote  and  spoke. 

He  warmed  with  Irish  pride  in  deeds  defying  Might's  strong 

host, 
Yet  ever  shared  the  Saxon  sense  for  ruling  at  the  roast. 

He  bore  the  poet's  shifting  heart  that  puts  itself  in  place 
Of  every  humble  kindly  soul  it  knows  of  every  race, 


lOI 


ELEGY   FOR  "THE    DOCTOR" 

He  felt  their  sorrow  as  their  joy,  but  chose  the  strain  to  cheer 
And  help  the  differing  breeds  to  share  one  patriot  feeling  here. 

There  was  no  better  loyalist  than  this  whose  humors  played 
In  pleasant  human  wise  to  serve  the  State  two  races  made  — 
O  Landlord,  turn  the  glasses  down,  and  leave  the  room 

alight, 
And  let  the  flower-sweet  silence  tell  his  shade  our  grief 

to-night. 


102 


HAIL   TO    THE    CHIEF 


HAIL  TO  THE  CHIEF 

On  Sir  Wilfrid  Laurier's  Return  from  the  Imperial 
Conference,  1907 

Again  we  greet  the  patient  heart, 

The  conference-guiding  master-hand. 

Who  put  illusive  dreams  apart, 

And  wrought  as  careful  wisdom  planned. 

With  welcoming  hearts  we  strive  in  vain 

To  voice  the  unutterable  cheers 

That  yearn  for  him  whose  works  attain 

For  us  the  longing  hopes  of  years. 

For  spirits  twain  possess  the  hearts 
That  hold  our  North  from  sea  to  sea; 
The  one  a  vigorous  love  imparts 
Of  self-dependent  liberty, 
The  other,  sweet  with  kinship's  thought, 
Forever  strives  to  bridge  the  main; 
And  all  our  country's  years  were  fraught 
With  hope  to  serve  the  spirits  twain. 

While  cynics  scorned  the  dual  dream, 
Proclaiming  one  must  surely  die. 
Our  lifted  eyes  beheld  the  gleam 
Afar,  of  days  now  looming  nigh; 
The  Voluntary  Empire's  form 
Of  comrade  commonwealths  allied. 
Stands  fit,  at  last,  to  front  the  storm, 
And  thrust  Time's  hurricane  aside. 

With  countries  Old  and  countries  New, 
All  willing  champions  round  the  Throne, 
With  each  to  separate  freedom  true. 
Yet  shaped  in  league  to  hold  their  own; 

103 


HAIL   TO   THE   CHIEF 

We  bless  the  Chief  whose  patriot  soul 
Held  both  our  spirits  reconciled, 
And  grasped  the  hour  in  firm  control 
When  on  our  dreams  Occasion  smiled. 


104 


A   CANADIAN   REPLY 

A  CANADIAN  REPLY 

(to  one  who  would  refuse  liberty  to  the  boers) 

If  ancient  England  nobly  sing, 

We  hearken  to  the  song. 
Her  words  ten  million  echoes  bring 

To  urge  the  strain  along; 
It  rallies  farm  and  market-square, 

If  so  the  note  be  true,  — 
But  what  if  every  verse  declare 

But  one  inspired  Yahoo  ? 

Fifty  thousand  horse  and  foot 

Trail  back  from  Table  Bay 
In  shame  to  recollect  the  toot 

To  which  they  sailed  avt^ay; 
Five  times  fifty  thousand  more 

The  fight  could  barely  save. 
With  aid  from  every  British  shore 

To  quell  the  burgher  brave. 

Through  forests  dim,  o'er  myriad  lakes, 

Where  sea-wide  prairies  sv^ell, 
It  seemed  our  hearts  were  like  to  break; 

What  time  the  Shame  befell 
Of  "I  regret  I  must  report 

Surrendering  the  Nek," 
And  "Guns  all  captured,"  "No  support," 

Death  dogging  kop  and  trek. 

From  stroke  of  axe,  from  herded  ranch, 
From  league-long  furrows  black, 

We  sent  our  children  stark  and  staunch 
To  tread  the  battle  track; 

All  bound  by  grace  on  England's  part 
To  help  her  hoe  the  row, 
105 


A   CANADIAN   REPLY 

But  never  hatred  in  their  heart 
Against  the  hero  foe. 

Majuba  Hill!   Oh,  yes,  we  grieve 

Full  sorely  at  the  name, 
But  what  hyena  can  conceive 

We  would  revenge  the  blame  ? 
Ye  braves  who  stormed  a  mountain  crest 

To  fight  with  five  to  one. 
By  God,  praise  thunders  in  the  breast 

To  think  such  deed  was  done! 

And  is  it  England's  voice  declares 

That  yielded  men  whose  souls 
Confronted  all  that  valor  dares 

Must  lack  the  freeman's  polls  ? 
Must  lack  the  balm  that  soothed  away 

Canadian  memories  sore. 
And  drew  to  England's  battle  day 

As  friends  the  foes  of  yore  ? 

Now  bear  the  strain  to  London  town, 

Oh,  winds  of  England's  main. 
And  tell  the  heirs  of  old  renown 

We  lilt  their  old  refrain : 
"Full  measure  heaped  and  running  o'er 

Of  every  freeman's  right 
Subdues  the  heart  of  heroes  more 

Than  all  the  storms  of  fight." 


io6 


TO    THE   PRINCESS   LOUISE 
TO  THE  PRINCESS  LOUISE^ 

On  the  Death  of  the  Princess  Alice,  December,  1878 

Princess  but  yesterday,  to-day 
You  are  to  us  so  very  near 
By  human  sorrow,  that  away 
All  forms  and  titles  disappear; 
Your  mourning  glooms  the  winter  day, 
Sunshiny  clear  although  it  show. 
And  all  its  glittering  white  array 
Seems  for  our  grief  a  shroud  of  woe. 

Our  bells  ring  out,  and  in  the  air 
So  long  vibrate  with  mournful  tone 
That  English  bells  seem  answering  there, 
The  sound  from  far-off  belfries  blown; 
They  toll  together  here  as  there, 
For  yours  and  you  and  theirs  and  ours. 
And  what  if  now  her  spirit  were 
Rejoiced  by  all  the  swooning  towers  ? 

*  The  Princess  Louise  is  the  wife  of  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  in  1878  Governor- 
General  of  Canada. 


107 


ENVIRONMENT 


ENVIRONMENT 

Our  prison  house  extends  so  wide 
It  wails  the  farthest  Oceans'  tide, 
Enarches  every  Tropic's  bloom, 
And  gives  the  opposing  Arctics  room. 

Its  vistas  do  all  stars  include 

In  one  abysm  of  solitude, 

Whose  hollow  antres  swoon  where  Thought 

In  vain  imagines  Aught  or  Naught. 

At  time,  to  ease  the  jail,  we  deem 
Ourselves  companioned  in  the  dream, 
Conceiving  kindred  Spirits  share 
The  doom  each  soul  alone  must  bear. 

They  seem  to  move  and  smile  and  moan 
With  sense  of  all  the  heart  hath  known. 
Which  helps  the  pent-up  soul  beguile 
The  tension  of  its  domicile; 

Till,  doubtful  of  the  fancied  zest 
It  made  to  soothe  its  deep  unrest. 
Once  more  the  solitary  thrall 
Ponders  the  inimitable  Wall. 

"Perchance  another  Thought  supreme 
Includes  the  Dreamer  and  the  Dream  ? 
Or  doth  the  soundless  Prison  zone 
Confine  One  absolutely  lone  ? " 

'T  is  only  when  Love's  angel  eyes 
Gaze  steadfast  from  a  mortal  guise, 
Tranquil,  sincere,  divine,  devout. 
They  still  the  tumult  of  the  Doubt. 

io8 


ENVIRONMENT 

Then,  prisoning  Power,  we  do  accept 
The  Mystery  that  Thou  hast  kept, 
And  cheerful  in  Thy  bondage  dwell, 
Blest  creatures  of  Thy  miracle. 


109 


RESURRECTION 


RESURRECTION 

When  iron  taskwork  levelled  low 
My  youthful  dreams  of  pride, 
'Twas  "Oh  to  reach  the  end  and  go 
Beyond  all  seas,"  I  sighed; 
'For  freedom's  songbirds  pierce  me  sore, 
I  wince  when  lovers  greet. 
All  blessed  lives  mock  mine  the  more 
In  this  long  World's  strange  street." 

Time  wrought  that  envy  to  an  end, 

I  could  endure  the  day. 

The  looming  sea  I  took  for  friend. 

Its  patient,  solemn  sway 

Taught  me  acceptance  of  control, 

Contempt  for  woe  and  joy. 

And  Life  a  dream  wherein  what  soul 

Scorns  Fate,  escapes  annoy. 

With  this  stern  wisdom  once  acquaint 

My  spirit  coldly  braved, 

It  gave  no  thanks,  it  made  no  plaint. 

Suffered,  and  nowise  craved; 

Thy  life,  O  heart,  seemed  calmly  dead, 

Thy  dirge  the  friendly  Main, 

Thy  tomb  and  empty  blueness  spread 

To  dome  a  senseless  plain. 

At  last,  with  one  transfiguring  sign 
(Love  wrought  this  wonder  rare). 
Lord  God,  what  anthems  intertwine 
To  thrill  Thy  shining  air! 
Our  choral  gladness  wings  above 
The  far  resurging  sea. 
Whose  diapason  chants  the  Love 
That  wakes  my  soul  to  Thee, 
no 


JUDGMENT   HOUR 


JUDGMENT  HOUR 

"Spirit,"  said  God,  "come  up  for  Judgment  now." 
The  words  seemed  spoke  in  such  famihar  tone 
As  if  the  accents  of  a  natural  voice 
Close  to  the  heart  as  its  own  beating  pulse. 

"Come  up,"  it  said,  "for  final  judgment  now 
Before  the  absolute  court  of  Me  in  Thee, 
The  court  which  hears  no  plea,  allows  no  charge, 
Abates  no  jot  in  estimating  wrong. 
Awards  no  punishment  and  grants  no  boon, 
But  weighs  precise  the  actual  quality 
Of  Spirit  proven  by  the  appointed  tests, 
And  true  decides  if  it  recruit  in  Me 
The  Immortal  Strength,  or  if  the  tempted  one, 
Too  weak  for  toils  eternal,  sanely  pass 
To  that  which  I  am  not,  Oblivion." 

Then  Thee  reviewed  with  Me,  O  God,  the  course,  — 

What  bodily  appetites  indulged  or  quelled; 

What  hates  and  harms  repaid  with  hurts  and  scorns, 

Or  with  forgetfulness  or  benefits ; 

The  proper  rest  that  merged  to  slothful  ease. 

Or  was  in  pain  enduringly  ignored; 

That  laughing,  wholesome  impulse  which,  unchecked. 

Became  derision's  cruelty  of  glee; 

The  righteous  anger  rushing  headlong  on. 

What  did,  when  calmly  visioned,  piteous  seem; 

That  pity  for  the  Weak,  which  blamed  alike 

The  unjust  heedless  and  the  heedful  Strong; 

The  passionate  heart's  excess  in  everything, 

Its  wild  unsteadiness  unto  the  Soul 

Which  yet  persisted,  sternly  right,  to  chide 

The  insensate  rebel  part  averse  from  Thee, 

III 


JUDGMENT    HOUR 

The  Thee  and  Me,  O  God,  revised  it  all 
Clearly,  relentlessly,  and  grave  declared,  — 
'Thou  didst  not  ever  fail  the  Heart,  O  Soul, 
Nor  doth  it  fail  thee  nov^.    Nay,  We  elect 
No  Lethe,  no  Oblivion,  but  the  strife 
Eternal,  toward  we  know  not  what,  save  Good.' 

Then  some  calm  happiness  known  not  before 
Came  to  the  Life  whose  Judgment  hour  was  o'er. 


112 


HAPPYHEART 


HAPPYHEART 

Amid  a  waste  of  worn-out  apple  trees, 

In  doorless  ruin,  nigh  a  grass-grown  road 

Set  far  from  every  tumult  of  to-day, 

Stands  yet  the  house  where  Happyheart  was  born. 

That  day,  his  mother  told  him  once,  she  wept, 
Boding  what  gusty  fates  must  threat  the  babe 
Who  lay  as  musing  all  delightedly 
To  hear  the  strangest  storm  she  ever  knew. 

For  while  a  norther  hammered  on  the  walls. 
Tore  crusted  snow,  whirled  orchard  branches  off, 
Pelted  the  shuttered  windows,  wailed  dismay. 
Clear  blue  and  sunshine  held  the  winter  sky. 

And,  happy  in  the  southward  lee,  she  saw 
The  earliest  singing  sparrow  of  the  spring 
Hop  on  her  sill,  chanting  melodiously. 
Full  glad  of  shelter  in  the  warming  beams. 

"The  bird  is  his,"  —  declared  the  Irish  nurse, 
"Great  luck  indeed!   See,  will  he  notice  it?" 

Speaking,  she  turned  the  new-born  man-child's  face 
In  such  a  wise  his  wondering  mother  saw 
Within  the  steady  eyes  a  tiny  scene,  — 
The  panes,  the  singing  bird,  the  whirHng  world. 
Trees  madly  thrashing,  wracks  of  hurrying  drift 
Crossing  the  clear,  eternal,  sunlit  sky. 

"What?   Crying?   Troth,  but  this  will  never  do! 
Sure  he  takes  notice  of  the  bird,  I  '11  swear! 
Cheer  up!   'T  is  happy  fortune  will  be  his! 
There 's  not  a  child  in  all  the  land  so  blest 

113 


HAPPYHEART 

As  him  the  winter  songbird  hastens  to!" 
And  still  the  mother  wept,  she  knew  not  why. 

Within  the  portals  of  his  house  of  birth 

Has  Happyheart  beheld  the  snow  wraiths  reel, 

While  in  the  azure  height  of  clear  divine 

The  sun  swung  lordly  o  'er  no  loneliness 

More  chill  than  stared  about  the  scene  forlorn; 

And  yet  the  eyes  his  mother  wept  to  see 

Pictured  fine  gleams  through  every  clouding  wrack, 

Infinite  calm,  and  singers  wonderful. 


114 


OUR   TOWN'S    COiMFORTER 


OUR  TOWN'S  COMFORTER 

It  touches  the  heart  of  "Our  Mother" 

with  happiness  queerly  regretful 
To  muse  on  all  they  who  instinctively 

bring  her  their  innermost  grief, 
For  reasons  she  never  can  fathom 

they  come,  as  if  wholly  forgetful 
Of  fear  to  repose  their  confessions 

with  Our  Town's  fount  of  relief. 

What  crucified  faces  of  maidens 

despairing  in  love's  desolation 
Have  streamed  with  the  weeping  they've  hidden 

from  all,  except  Mother  alone! 
What  stormy-heart  fighters  came  wildly 

lamenting  their  souls'  tribulation 
At  hearing  the  weaklings  they  'd  vanquished 

from  terrible  silences  groan ! 

What  saints  who  had  failed  of  the  halo, 

because  their  stiff  features  retarded 
The  flow  of  affection  from  children 

they  loved,  though  with  signals  confused, 
Would  open,  for  Mother's  eyes  only, 

mysterious  portals  that  guarded 
Their  yearning  for  all  the  caresses 

their  hickory  manners  refused. 

When  parents,  grown  aged,  and  basking 

long  years  in  the  Town's  veneration, 
Shrank  bitter  and  dumb,  at  the  blow  of 

an  archangel  son  in  disgrace. 
How  he  knelt  in  despair  with  Our  Mother, 

and  rose  with  the  transfiguration 
Of  that  which  is  God,  or  just  mother, 

that  shines  in  her  triumphing  face. 
115 


OUR   TOWN'S    COMFORTER 

Yet  Mother  is  given  to  blaming 

her  nature  for  cold-hearted  dealing;  — 
"Dear  souls,  how  they  pour  out  their  troubles 

to  me,  whose  responses  are  wood! 
Though  I  strive  to  console  them,  my  sayings 

seem  void,  to  myself,  of  all  feeling, 
For  I  never  can  find  an  expression 

to  make  my  heart  half  understood." 

"And  I  never  can  love  them  enough 

in  their  sadness,  however  I'm  trying 
To  soften  the  life  in  my  heart 

till  it  break  with  their  anguishing  tears, 
For  it's  flooded  with  gladness  to  feel  them 

so  helped  by  the  balm  of  the  crying,  — 
And,  oh,  what  a  shame  I  'm  made  happy 

through  sorrows  they'll  carry  for  years." 


ii6 


BRETHREN   OF   THE   BOAT 

BRETHREN  OF  THE  BOAT 

(union  boat  club,  boston) 

When  some  of  ancient  lineage  prate 

We  brothers  listen  with  a  smile, 

We  do  not  boast  ancestral  state. 

It  really  is  n't  worth  our  while. 

Since  all  must  know  that  we  can  trace 

Our  line  to  ages  so  remote 

As  when  Pa  Noah  gave  a  place 

To  none  but  brethren  of  his  boat. 

In  that  old  world  where  sin  was  rife, 
How  natural  that  the  only  man 
Found  worthy  of  continuing  life 
Was  one  who'd  lived  on  such  a  plan 
That  when  the  earth  was  all  submerged 
He  knew  the  way  to  go  afloat 
And  save  —  the  point  is  once  more  urged 
Our  line,  the  Brethren  of  the  Boat. 

Since  then  our  long  immortal  scroll 

Has  blazed  with  names  of  Men  of  Might, 

Jason,  Ulysses,  on  the  roll 

With  Caesar,  and  with  Wallace  wight; 

From  age  to  age,  on  every  shore, 

Who  raised  the  strong  triumphant  note 

If  not  the  Vikings  of  the  Oar, 

We,  ruggers,  Brethren  of  the  Boat  ? 

Who  holds  the  keys  of  Heaven  and  Hell 
And  Purgatory  in  his  hand  ? 
A  boating  man  —  and  does  it  well  — 
St.  Peter,  so  we  understand! 
Where  were  the  first  Apostles  found  .?  — 
Sure,  every  child  knows  this  by  rote  — 
117 


BRETHREN    OF   THE    BOAT 

Amongst  the  men  whose  hearts  be  sound, 
The  virtuous  Brethren  of  the  Boat. 

It  may  be  false,  yet  some  contend 
That  when  to  other  spheres  men  go, 
The  judgment  of  their  final  end 
Hangs  on  the  question,  Did  he  row? 
But  this  is  sure,  —  on  us  at  last 
Old  Father  Charon's  eyes  will  doat, 
As  o'er  the  Styx  he  ferries  fast 
His  comrade  Brethren  of  the  Boat. 


ii8 


CUPID    IN   THE   OFFICE 
CUPID  IN  THE  OFFICE 

PRELUDE 

We  buried  in  Mount  Auburn  last  July 
The  gentle,  clerkly,  wan  old  bookkeeper. 
Who  left  to  me  his  sheaf  of  casual  verse. 

"You'll  smile,"  he  wrote,  "to  learn  I  poetized. 
However  little.    Here  are  all  my  rhymes; 
Too  intime,  surely,  to  be  put  in  print 
While  we  two  lived,  with  whom  the  verses  deal. 
How  curious  that  it  really  comforts  me 
To  dream  you'll  give  them  vogue,  and  so  prolong 
In  mortal  memory  a  faint,  fair  wraith 
Of  her  who,  while  I  live,  is  clearly  shrined, 
Smiling,  within  my  unforgetting  heart." 

They  give  the  poignancy  of  Commonplace; 
Accents  of  fondness,  no  more  like  the  feigned 
Which  forms  the  stock  of  many  a  polished  strain. 
Than  fields  and  woods  enwreathed  with  moving  mists 
And  changeful  to  the  phase  of  hour  and  year 
Are  like  a  painted  canvas  of  the  scene. 


REVERIE 

DovE-TiNTED,  urban-bred,  secure, 
Nowise  self-centred,  quite  self-sure, 
Priestess  of  Business,  Office-nun, 
And  yet  her  girlhood  scarcely  done! 

That  balanced  poise  of  confidence 
Is  yet  young  maiden  Innocence, 
119 


CUPID    IN   THE   OFFICE 

Whose  deep,  gray  eyes  undreaming  wait 
The  woman's  dearest  boon  from  Fate. 

My  reverie,  though  it  vision  plain 
Her  lucency,  can  scarce  retain 
The  radiant  smile,  with  humor  fraught, 
But  quick  repressed,  as  if  she  thought 
It  wrong  to  let  her  seniors  guess 
That  Mirth  may  visit  business; 
Yet  flits  it  back  in  utter  charm, 
As  if  to  smile  were  n't  really  harm. 

It  is  that  smile  which  brings  surprise 
Jumping  to  my  delighted  eyes, 
And  makes  my  heart  so  yearn  she  were 
Absorbed  in  Woman's  natural  care. 

Cupid,  though  growing  gray  I  be, 
Incline  her  heart,  that  I  may  free 
Her  life  from  office  drudgery. 


II 

THE   CHRISTMAS   WALK 

How  brisk  in  frost  we  stept  together  west! 
The  sky,  as  pearly  as  her  lucent  face. 
Wore,  too,  the  faint  austere  which  gives  her  grace. 
The  sacredness  that  calms  my  heart  to  rest. 

Up  toward  the  Roxbury  hill,  whose  builded  crest 
Outlined  a  rim  serrate  of  flamelike  sky, 
Her  virginal  beauty  flushed,  —  and  oh,  the  shy 
Gleam  of  her  pleasure  as  her  glove  caressed. 
Upon  her  heart  abloom,  my  glowing  rose! 

And  yet,  before  our  Christmas  walk  was  done, 
Its  scarlet  loveliness  of  petals  froze, 

120 


CUPID    IN   THE    OFFICE 

Whereby  upon  the  stalk  it  drooped  and  died; 
So  cruel  shone  the  nightward  slanting  sun 
This  day  of  our  first  marching  side  by  side. 


Ill 

CUL-DE-SAC 

'Dear  Dove,  both  Love  and  Life  command  we  wed," 
Spoke  I.    She  smiled  and  shook  her  sage  young  head, 
And  mused,  and  gravely  said:  "Before  we  met, 
Life  had  ruled  straight  our  page,  and  rules  it  yet. 
Though  Love  be  come  to  light  that  even  Way, 
What  else  has  changed  ?   The  filial  tasks  of  day, 
Your  day  and  mine,  cannot  be  put  aside 
That  selfish  Love  alone  be  glorified. 
Did  daily  duty  done  not  keep  us  blest 
Our  infinite  love  were  infinite  unrest. 
Our  separate  earnings  still  our  Aged  need  — 
Spare  me,  dear  love,  you  shake  me  when  you  plead." 

IV 

APRIL   HOLIDAY 

An  hour  by  rail,  then  up  the  hill 
Where  Talking  Brook  forever  calls 
In  glee  that  never  April  rill 
Could  tinkle  lovelier  madrigals. 
Where  pussy-willows'  silver  spires 
So  bloomy  that  a  touch  might  harm, 
And  frogs  in  monotoning  choirs 
Chirp  their  drowsed  miracle  of  charm. 

The  World,  for  once,  was  ours  alone; 
Its  freshening  hazy  hillsides  high, 

121 


CUPID    IN   THE   OFFICE 

Their  billowy  woodlands  budding  zone 
Suspiring  tops  that  merged  in  sky. 
How  fast  our  steps  in  crispy  brown 
Of  last  year's  rustling  foliage  fled, 
To  kneel  to  fair  Spring-beauty's  crown 
And  dear  hepatica's  starry  head! 

All  was  our  Paradise,  and  we 

Were  Eve  and  Adam  gathering  flowers. 

Wotting  of  no  forbidden  tree 

Or  bloom  in  Sussex  County  bowers, 

Until  the  Man  and  Dog  of  Wrath 

Came,  at  our  trespass  raging  wild 

Before  they  saw  her  in  their  path 

Smiling  as  one  who  friendly  smiled. 

Amazed,  disarmed,  as  if  in  shame. 
How  queer  the  embarrassed  farmer  stood! 
'  'T  ain't  my  old  dog  you  got  to  blame, 
I  larnt  him  chase  folks  out  'n  this  wood. 
But,  Laws,  ye  're  welcome  any  day ! 
Come  when  ye  like  —  ye  won't  intrude." 
While  at  her  feet  old  Brindle  lay 
Fondled,  fond  squirming,  quite  subdued! 

"Miss  Tact!"  when  they  were  gone  I  laughed, 
"Miss  Nerve!   O  cool  Miss  Impudence!" 
She  beamed  demurely  while  I  chaflfed, 
Saying,  "I  am  Miss  Common-sense! 
What  earthly  use  to  run  away  ? 
What  sense  to  look  one  bit  dismayed  1 
It 's  gentleness  that  wins  the  day  — 
But,  Oh,  dear,  was  n't  I  afraid." 


122 


CUPID   IN   THE   OFFICE 
V 

CONSOLATION 

A  TENDER  miracle  so  blends 
The  separate  life  which  is  our  fate 
With  gentle  joys,  that  it  transcends 
The  bridals  of  the  fortunate. 

With  beams  too  delicate  for  name  — 
So  sunny  warm,  so  frosty  pure, 
I  tell  her  that  our  business-flame 
Of  love  unfailing,  glows  secure. 

"We  have  the  Best,"  she  says.    We  smile, 
We  sigh  as  if  it  were  not  so; 
Yet  deep  in  either  heart  the  while 
We  know  The  Best  is  what  we  know. 

VI 

THE    PURITAN 

"I  SHUN  the  theatre.    It's  not  the  place" 
She  said,  "that  I  dislike  —  no  —  all  the  sights 
Of  Orchestra  and  Audience  and  the  space 
Of  brilliancy  and  life  are  my  delights 
When  people  talk  at  ease  between  the  Acts. 
But,  oh,  the  Stage,  the  piteous  puppets  there 
Posturing,  ranting,  and  without  a  share 
In  the  quick  farce  and  tragedy  of  Facts!  — 
Unless  the  essential  horror  of  a  Play 
Is  that  bright  beings  in  God's  image  made 
Should  fume  their  little  spans  of  strength  away 
In  simulating  fancied  joy  and  grief 
While  really  desperate  that  the  mummers'  trade 
Holds  them  from  useful  Work,  the  soul's  relief." 

123 


CUPID    IN   THE   OFFICE 
VII 

KISMET 

OuiET,  my  heart!   My  brain  must  be 

Untroubled  by  your  anxious  pain. 

I  must  be  laboring  patiently 

To-day,  to-morrow,  oft  again. 

Quiet,  my  heart,  by  day,  for  night 
Shakes  me  with  all  your  wild  affright. 

Let  Lois  live,  though  crippled  sore 
For  hfe.    O  God,  incline,  I  pray, 
Thy  will  to  this  which  I  implore! 
And  let  me  earn  our  bread  each  day! 

Quiet,  my  heart,  —  thy  terror  lies! 

It  cannot  be  that  Lois  dies! 

VIII 

HEPATICAS 
(The  Next  April) 

Lois,  alone  I  've  walked  the  way 

By  Talking  Brook  to  Fairy  Falls 

We  trod  a  year  ago  to-day. 

JnJ  did  you  hear  such  bluebird  calls  ? 
And  is  the  April  green  as  fresh  ? 
And  sings  our  Brook  its  cheery  tune? 

Yes,  Darling,  and  the  frogs  enmesh 

Again  such  magic  in  their  croon 

That  you  seemed  listening  with  me  there. 
And  where  the  farmstead  buildings  stand 
Dwell  still  the  Man  and  Dog  who  were 
So  angry  first,  and  then  so  bland  F 

Dear  Dove,  the  Dog  came  barking  wild, 

124 


CUPID    IN   THE   OFFICE 

The  greybeard  roared  him  on  in  rage 
Just  as  when  you  their  wrath  beguiled. 
How  fond  you  dream  I  did  assuage 
That  angry  pair,  who  perhaps  advanced 
Half  pking  at  our  trespassing. 
To-day  a  thing  more  touching  chanced;  — 
For  when  I  cried,  "This  day  last  Spring 
You  bade  Miss  Lois  'come  again'"  — 
Oh,  did  that  man  remember  still. 
And  for  my  sake  was  once  more  fain 
To  let  you  search  for  flowers  his  hill? 
Lois  —  he  left  his  plough  awhile 
To  pluck  for  you  this  bunch  of  bloom.  — 
"Tell  her,"  he  said,  "I  loved  her  smile." 

The  dear  old  man!   How  rare  my  room 
With  fair  hepaticas  !   Dear  you  ! 
You  went  so  far  to  bring  me  these! 
That  gladsome  voice  I  never  knew 
To  flinch  in  all  her  agonies. 


IX 

FLOWN 

To-day  our  Office  friends  declare,  — 
"Fate  gave  to  her  a  hopeless  part, 
And  wondjbus  was  her  pluck  to  bear 
So  long  that  knowledge  at  her  heart. 
Stretched  straining  on  the  rack  of  pain 
She  dwelt,  it  seemed,  as  one  in  bliss, 
Yet  who  that  knew  her  lot  is  fain 
To  weep  that  she  has  peace  like  this  ?" 

But  they,  whose  faithful  hearts  believed 
They  knew  her  lot,  were  never  told 
How  strong  her  valorous  soul  conceived 
That  happy  was  her  fate  controlled. 

125 


-r 


CUPID    IN   THE   OFFICE 

Last  night  she  told  me,  —  "Though  I  lay 
Withdrawn  by  bodily  pangs  from  mirth, 
There  could  not  be  a  lovelier  way 
To  live  than  you  made  mine  on  earth. 
Your  love  was  summer's  bloom  and  leaf, 
It  tranced  my  narrow  strip  of  blue. 
It  touched  my  cheeks  in  zephyrs  brief 
That  purely  strengthened  me  anew; 
It  haloed  City  cloud  and  hill, 
From  clanging  streets  it  fashioned  song. 
And  when  Night's  pealing  chimes  fell  still 
Its  murmuring  music  trembled  long. 
Oh,  love,  you  were  my  halcyon  calm. 
You  were  my  mystic  chrism,  that  blest. 
And  your  dear  arms  the  lulling  balm 
That  soothes  me  now  to  thankful  rest." 


X 

ENSHRINED 

Since  Lois  died  the  tyrant  Sun 
Drags  haggard  in  his  orbit  bound 
This  puppet  Earth,  whose  seasons  run 
For  me  an  aimless,  wasted  round. 

Incessantly  I  think  to  die, 
Nor  ever  doubt  that  Death  is  Peace, 
And  many  an  hour  I  ponder  why 
My  soul  desists  from  her  release. 

I  do  not  dread  the  crash  of  pain 
For  one  loud  moment  at  the  close, 
Nor  shrink  to  taste  the  slow,  inane, 
Pervasive  opiate's  repose. 


126 


CUPID    IN   THE    OFFICE 

But  in  my  saddest  trances  still 
Her  steadfast  soul  upholdeth  mine 
To  endure  till  it  be  Nature's  will 
My  heart  shall  cease  to  be  her  shrine. 


127 


THE   BAD   YEAR 
THE   BAD  YEAR 

A 

May,  blighted  by  keen  frosts,  passed  on  to  Junej|[^ 
No  blooms,  but  many  a  stalk  with  drooping  leaves, 
And  arid  Summer  wilted  these  full  soon. 
And  Autumn  gathered  up  no  wealthy  sheaves; 
Plaintive  October  saddened  for  the  year. 
But  wild  November  raged  that  hope  was  past, 
Shrieking,  "All  days  of  life  are  made  how  drear  — 
Wild  whirls  of  snow!  and  Death  comes  driving  fast." 
Yet  sane  December  when  the  winds  fell  low, 
And  cold  calm  light  with  sunshine  tinkled  clear, 
Harkened  to  bells  more  sweet  than  long  ago, 
And  meditated  in  a  mind  sincere :  — 

"Beneath  these  snows  shining  from  yon  red  west 
How  sleep  the  blooms  of  some  delighted  May, 
And  June  shall  riot,  lovely  as  the  best 

That  flung  their  odors  forth  on  all  their  way; 
Yes,  violet  Spring,  the  balms  of  her  soft  breath. 
Her  birdlike  voice,  the  child-joy  in  her  air. 
Her  gentle  colors"  —  sane  December  saith 
"They  come,  they  come  —  O  heart,  sigh  not  'They  were.' 


128 


TO  THEODORE   ROOSEVELT 

(on  his  departure  for  Africa) 

Shall  we  to  great  Deliverers  be  blind 
If  they  within  our  sight  have  daily  wrought  I 
Must  we  forever  cast  our  gaze  behind, 
Praising  the  past  immortals  of  our  kind, 
And  to  our  present  heroes  grudging  aught  ? 
Shall  we  lament  that  now  no  Hercules 
Clubs  down  oppressors,  and  the  people  frees  ? 
We,  who  have  seen  one  valiant  soul  alone 
Fronting  the  banded  pirates  of  the  State, 
Renewing  millions  in  a  hope  long  flown, 
Rousing  his  Nation  to  a  heart  elate. 

There  was  no  man  bent  faithful  to  his  work 
In  all  the  Land  but  deemed  this  man  his  friend; 
No  woman  did  her  natural  duties  shirk 
But  felt  his  scorn  within  her  conscience  irk; 
No  losel  knave  but  longed  to  see  an  end 

Of  him  who,  Samson  strong,  smote  every  foe 
That,  guileful,  gathered  gain  from  public  woe. 
This  man  gave  such  example  in  high  seat 
That  nevermore  a  President  dares  gaze 
Gently  on  those  who  shivered  while  his  feet 
Trod  in  the  righteous  ruthlessness  which  slays. 

Sought  ye  the  Lord's  anointed  mid  the  Kings 
Enthroned  in  pomp  barbaric  and  outworn, 
Entinselled,  millinered,  bedizened  things 
Pranked  out  as  butterflies  of  peacocked  wings, 
Or  gaudy  poppies  in  the  useful  corn  ? 

Go  seek  mid  them  who  do,  like  him,  oppose 

129 


TO   THEODORE   ROOSEVELT 

Their  strength  in  equal  fight  with  equal  foes 
Where  Worth  can  summon  Friendship  to  its  side, 
Can  help  the  piteous  Weak,  can  smite  the  Base, 
Can  spurn  the  flauntings  of  a  gewgaw  pride, 
Effeminate  Pleasure's  cunning  lures  deride, 
And,  Godlike  laboring,  animate  the  Race. 

Let  cynic  drollards  fling  the  easy  jeer 
At  him  who  by  mysterious  Fate's  uplift 
Received  anointment  true,  when  chose  to  steer, 
Watchful,  enduring,  staunch  from  year  to  year, 
The  Ship  of  Freedom's  Hope  from  anxious  drift. 
He  is  no  paragon  of  virtues  mild, 
No  meek  Academy's  precisian  child; 
Hot  indignation  gives  him  tones  that  ring 
As  steely  mallet  battering  iron  thing,  — 
But,  oh,  his  strokes  befit  a  Man  of  men! 
And  long  may  we  desire  his  like  again. 
Go  to  the  lions  —  safe  thou  shalt  return  — 
No  martyr  soul  in  thee  confronts  their  frown  — 
'T  is  for  thy  homebound  ship  that  we  shall  yearn; 
Ephesian  beasts  may  then  again  discern 
God's  hammer  smashing  their  defences  down. 


130 


TRANSLATIONS 


GASTIBELZAH 
GASTIBELZAH 

FROM   THE  FRENCH   OF   VICTOR   HUGO 
(Guitar  e) 

GASTIBELZAH  who  bore  the  carabine 

Was  wont  to  sing : 
"  Did  any  of  you  people  know  Sabine 

Who  are  listening  ? 
Dance,  villagers,  and  sing,  dusk  settles  nigh 

Phalou  again. 
The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 

Will  craze  my  brain. 

"Does  any  one  remember  fair  Sabine, 

My  senora  ? 
Her  mother  was  the  wrinkled  maugrabine 

Of  Antigra, 
Who  from  the  tower  screamed  down  her  owlish  cry 

At  evening's  wane. 
The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 

Will  craze  my  brain. 

"Dancing  and  singing!   All  such  pleasant  things 

We  ought  to  prize. 
Sabine  was  young,  and  happiness  had  springs 

In  her  clear  eyes. 
They'd  make  you  think.    [Old  beggar,  catch!  I  shy 

You  coppers  twain.] 
The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 

Will  craze  my  brain. 

"Truly,  the  Queen  herself  would  beauty  lack 
Beside  Sabine, 
Crossing  Toledo's  bridge  in  bodice  black 
At  fall  of  e'en ; 

133 


GASTIBELZAH 

Beads  of  the  time  of  Charlemagne  supply 

Her  necklet  skein. 
The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 

Will  craze  my  brain. 

"The  King,  on  seeing  her  so  lovely,  said  — 

'O  nephew  dear, 
To  win  one  kiss,  one  ringlet  of  her  head. 

One  smile  —  right  here, 
Don  Ruiz,  Prince,  I'd  put  my  kingdoms  by, 

Peru  and  Spain!' 
The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 

Will  craze  my  brain. 

"I  know  not  if  I  loved  that  lady,  though 

I  know  full  well. 
Poor  dog,  to  gain  one  loving  look,  I'd  go 

And  gladly  dwell 
Ten  mortal  years  a  galley  slave  to  lie 

With  ball  and  chain. 
The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 

Will  craze  my  brain. 

"One  summer  day,  when  all  was  life  and  gleam 

And  tenderness, 
She  and  her  sister  played  about  the  stream 

In  half  undress  — 
The  girlish  foot,  the  knee  —  I  could  descry 

Each  tiny  vein. 
The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 

Will  craze  my  brain. 

"When  I,  of  old  the  herdsman  of  this  place. 

Beheld  the  maid, 
I  deemed  I  saw  sweet  Cleopatra's  grace, 

Who  once,  't  is  said. 
Led  Caesar,  Emperor  of  Germany, 

Her  haltered  swain. 


GASTIBELZAH 

The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 
Will  craze  my  brain. 

"Dance,  villagers,  and  sing  —  night  glooms  above  — 

Sabine,  one  day. 
Sold  all  her  spotless  beauty  of  a  dove, 

Cast  love  away, 
For  golden  rings,  for  gawds,  she  took  the  tie 

Of  Count  Saldagne. 
The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 

Will  craze  my  brain, 

'On  this  old  bench  I  beg  you  let  me  lean, 

I  'm  tired  sore  — 
Well,  then  —  she  fled  with  Count  Saldagne  —  I  've  seen 

Her  nevermore. 
She  took  the  road  I  know  not  where,  to  fly 

Beyond  Cerdagne. 
The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 

Will  craze  my  brain. 

'I  saw  her  pass  my  hut,  and  that  was  all, 

One  moment  brief, 
But  now  I  see  her  every  hour,  and  fall 

To  wearier  grief  — 
Idle,  my  dirk  hung  up,  with  dreaming  eye, 

I  roam  the  plain. 
The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain  sky 

Has  crazed  my  brain." 


135 


O    CANADA,  MON    PAYS,  MES   AMOURS 


O  CANADA,  MON  PAYS,  MES  AMOURS 

FROM   THE   FRENCH    OF    SIR   GEORGE    ETIENNE    CARTIER 

No  Land  so  fair  as  one's  own  Land," 
Is  what  the  good  old  adage  says ; 
By  that  and  custom,  too,  I  stand 
To  sing  to-day  my  country's  praise. 
The  stranger  sees  with  envious  eyes 
St.  Lawrence'  tide  majestic  roll. 
Gazing,  the  proud  Canadian  cries, 
O  Canada,  my  Land,  my  Soul! 

What  purling  brooks  by  meadows  wide 
In  myriads  thrid  our  fertile  plains; 
How  rise  aloft  the  hills  of  pride 
We  see  afar  in  ranging  chains; 
Chutes,  rapids,  valleys,  forest  brakes  — 
Where  can  more  noble  scenes  unroll, 
Who  fail  to  love  thy  limpid  lakes  ? 
O  Canada,  my  Land,  my  Soul ! 

Each  country  boasts  its  ladies  fair 
(I  quite  believe  with  reason,  too), 
But  our  Canadian  girls,  I  swear. 
In  charm  can  be  surpassed  by  few. 
So  cheerful  they,  and  so  sincere, 
Yet,  of  the  French  coquettish  role 
They've  just  enough  to  make  them  dear,  — 
O  Canada,  my  Land,  my  Soul! 

Canadians,  sons  of  merry  sires, 
They  love  the  laugh,  are  gay  and  free, 
Warm  glow  their  hospitable  fires. 
Quick,  brave  and  mild  and  mannerly; 

136 


O    CANADA,  MON   PAYS,  MES   AMOURS 

To  Country  ever  staunchly  leal, 
Due  freedom  is  our  patriot  goal, 
Our  watchword  still  the  peace,  the  weal 
Of  Canada,  our  Land,  our  Soul !  ^ 

'  Cartier's  third  and  fourth  verses  have  been  here  transposed. 


137 


TO    BRITTANY 


TO   BRITTANY^ 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  W.  CHAPMAN 

I  NEVER  trod  thy  cliffs'  aspiring  height, 
Nor  saw  thy  pines  their  golden  balsam  store, 
Nor  watched  thy  balanced  shallops  winging  white, 
Yet,  Breton  land,  I  love  thee  evermore. 

My  love  is  strong  as  thy  old  oaks  at  core, 

Toward  them  my  heart  is  often  taking  flight, 

Because  we  hold,  throughout  our  land,  a  right 

In  that  pure  blood  which  through  thy  veins  doth  pour. 

Yes,  thee  I  love  with  ancient  memories  — 

Thy  reeds,  thy  heaths  where  Druid  work  endures, 

Thy  storied  people  and  thy  shore-beat  seas. 

And  when  returning  May  with  balm  allures, 

I  dream  the  murmurous  evening's  eastern  breeze 

Brings  airs  of  perfume  vaguely  from  thy  moors. 


*  Mr.  W.  Chapman,  the  French-Canadian  poet,  is  son  to  an  English  father 
and  a  French  mother.  He  was  crowned  by  the  Academy  of  France  for  his  noble 
volume  Les  Aspirations.  Mr.  Chapman,  to  whom  both  English  and  French  are 
mother-tongues,  has  graciously  approved  this  and  the  following  translations  from 
his  verses. 


138 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD 
MOTHER  AND  CHILD 

(old    FRANCE   AND   NEw) 
W.  CHAPMAN 

From  old  America  our  fathers,  wending 
Over  strange  seas  to  solitudes  unknown, 
Wrought  centuries  Homeric  ere  the  ending 
On  Abram's  Plains  beheld  them  overthrown. 

By  famine  weakened  and  by  numbers  stricken, 
Vainly  they  called  to  Louis'  deafened  ears; 
Wantons  alone  could  that  base  Wanton  quicken. 
And  our  last  hope  went  down  in  blood  and  tears. 

Conquered  ?   Oh,  yes  —  the  victors  find  us  loyal 
To  oaths  recorded,  —  but  our  hearts  go  free, 
They  yearn  across  the  deep  with  love  as  royal 
As  ever  heroes  gave,  O  France,  to  thee. 

Despite  neglect  the  true-born  child  must  cherish 
Ever  the  mother,  though  she  walked  astray; 
The  duty  of  his  soul  can  never  perish. 
Nor  cease  from  hope  to  make  her  glad  some  day. 

Never  by  force  the  filial  bond  is  riven :  — 
Because  thy  bosom  to  our  lips  did  thrill. 
Because  thy  blood  throughout  our  veins  is  driven, 
Because  that  Thou  art  France  we  love  thee  still. 

Little  it  matter  if  neglect  or  distance 
Hide  us  from  her,  as  ocean  fogs  immense; 
Ever  her  forehead's  glorious  persistence 
Sublimely  hfts  a  radiance  intense. 

139 


MOTHER  AND   CHILD 

It  lightens  round  the  World  a  beamy  pleasure. 
And,  'spite  fierce  thunderclaps  that  ominous  roll 
From  dark  events,  we  hear  the  racy  measure 
Of  her  fine  humors  freshening  Man's  soul. 

More  sweetly  fall  her  accents  than  the  murmur 
Of  wakening  birds  saluting  morning  clear, 
Her  charming  tones  could  come  to  us  no  firmer 
Were  the  beloved  lips  against  our  ear. 

Ever  she  glowed  aloft,  a  brilliant  vision 
Enchanting  Europe,  even  when  Fates  unkind 
And  Teuton  victors  voiced  a  vain  derision, 
Deeming  her  star  eternally  declined. 

Though  then  the  blind  and  shame-forgetting  neighbor 

Spat  on  her  brow,  insulting  all  her  woe, 

We  saw  her  rise  portending  over  Tabor 

In  splendor  clearer  than  her  Past  could  show. 

Thou  art,  O  France,  to  us  the  fertile  Mother, 
From  whom  the  World  an  endless  thirst  allays; 
Thou  art  the  eye,  more  piercing  than  all  other, 
Scanning  through  mists  of  Time  Man's  coming  days; 

The  Head  that  guides  The  Future's  ship  to  haven; 
The  Hand  that  turns  the  mighty  volume's  page. 
Whereon  The  Ideal's  characters  are  graven 
To  inspire  the  human  soul  from  Age  to  Age. 

Behold,  an  hundred  years  have  long  been  ended 
Since  vanquished  France  her  weeping  child  forsook; 
To  Manhood's  strength  the  babe  has  far  ascended, 
His  origin  august  beams  in  his  look. 

Wealthy  and  proud  and  free,  by  hardy  training 
In  iron  contests  conquering  adverse  Fate, 

140 


MOTHER   AND    CHILD 

Fighting  enormous  forests,  slowly  gaining, 
To  Progress  all  his  energies  vibrate. 

Superbly  laboring,  Founder  and  Creator, 

Soldier,  Apostle,  valorous  Pioneer, 

From  Arctic  solitudes  to  thronged  Equator 

His  furrowing  keels  plough  down  the  arduous  year. 

Unsullied  gleams  his  path  when  back  he  glances, 
He  eyes  the  morning,  brave  his  youthful  stride, 
On  trails  of  living  light  his  course  advances; 
Henceforth  the  Child  may  claim  the  Mother's  pride. 


141 


TO    MY   TWO    MOTHERS 
TO  MY  TWO   MOTHERS 

W.    CHAPMAN 
On  his  First  Visit  to  France 


Mother,  my  book  I  carry,  before  't  is  wholly  done, 

To  the  mound  where  thou  dost  tarry  beneath  the  grass  and 

sun; 
Mother,  I  bring  devotion;  a  bird  sings  clear  to-day; 
Dost  thou  feel,  in  my  step,  emotion  of  the  perfume  of  the 

May? 

Mother,  dost  thou  in  slumbers  my  accents  comprehend  ? 
Before  I  give  my  numbers  to  the  Heights  I  would  ascend, 
I  come  to  thee,  to  render  the  verses  that  I  wreathe,  — 
Surely  you  listen  tender,  surely  you  see  me  breathe. 

Mother,  remove  a  minute  the  shroud  that  hides  thy  face, 
The  beams  that  shone  within  it  illumed  my  path  with  grace; 
Unclose  thine  eyes ;  thy  finger  may  search  my  written  sheaves, 
Thy  touch,  where'er  it  linger,  find  naught  that  stains  the 
leaves. 

Though  strong  with  all  my  spirit  my  verse  hath  been  out- 
poured. 
No  Innocent  need  fear  it,  for  I  have  feared  the  Lord ; 
My  work  was  sometimes  written  with  midnight  tapers  by. 
But  nearly  all  was  litten  from  the  great  blue  shining  sky. 

In  solitude  I  labored  a  book  austere  and  chaste. 

For  Christ  I  wrought  unneighbored.   His  truth  my  spirit 

braced, 
Ever  thy  soul  was  ringing  in  mine  a  holy  sound. 
That  fashioned  all  my  singing  in  probity  profound. 

142 


TO    MY   TWO    MOTHERS 

I  sing  for  Art  all  purely,  I  sing  for  holy  fanes, 
Though  lost  in  deafness  surely  an  evil  time  remains; 
I  sing  the  notes  supernal  our  history  awoke, 
My  chants  of  deeds  eternal  the  ancestors  evoke. 

I  boast  with  pride  the  glories  that  deck  our  native  earth, — 
Thou,  artist  soul,  thy  stories  so  taught  me  from  my  birth; 
I  boast  th'  imperial  mazes  where  shadowy  forests  rise, 
And  sing  what  pureness  gazes  from  Winter's  sparkling  eyes. 

Vanquished  and  victors,  fairly  I  deal  to  each  their  meed; 
Smiles  I  profess  but  rarely,  and  many  tears  I  plead, 
To  aid  of  souls  in  trouble  my  lyric  music  starts, 
And  often  I  knock  double  upon  the  doors  of  hearts. 

If  in  my  poems  truly  I  set  what  pleaseth  thee, 

Then,  mother,  kiss  them  duly, —yea,  stoop   to   blessing 

me. 
That  they  may  live  forever,  and  tell  to  future  days 
How  I  adore  thee  ever,  Oh,  mother  of  my  praise ! 

II 

And  thou,  my  mother  nation,  hear'st  thou  my  accents  bless, 
Across  the  Sea's  elation  that  springtime  airs  caress  ?  — 
I  come  to  tread  the  flowers  of  thy  enchanting  ways, 
And  quaff  the  sparkhng  showers  of  Art  thy  fountains  raise. 

France  that  I  ever  cherish,  whose  name  my  heart  reveres, 
Remote   my   voice   might   perish,   failing    to    reach    thine 

ears; 
I  cross  the  barrier  ocean,  a  thrall  to  thy  renown. 
Bearing  my  book's  devotion,  to  lay  the  tribute  down. 

In  worship  have  I  striven  to  celebrate  thy  pride. 
Exalt  the  triumphs  given  to  spread  thy  fame  world-wide, 
The  holy  works  enacted  thy  forceful  zeal  to  prove, 
For  Jesus'  sake  exacted,  and  human  nature's  love. 

143 


TO    MY   TWO    MOTHERS 

I  lack  the  lute  all  golden  thy  bards,  O  France,  possess, 
Their  speech  sonorous,  olden,  of  piercing  tenderness;  — 
Indulge  my  rustic  chaunting,  upon  my  knees  I  crave. 
Forgive  me  all  that's  wanting,  and  all  that  pleaseth  save. 

My  singing  is  the  singing  that  trembles  all  sincere 
From  artless  worship  ringing  in  holy  places  dear; 
It  is  the  singing  river,  it  is  the  singing  breeze. 
It  is  the  songbirds'  quiver  to  the  Maker  of  the  trees. 

If  gold  be  gleaming  surely  within  my  mass  of  ore, 
I  might  not  work  it  purely  though  I  wrought  forevermore, 
And  the  humble  poet  merits  nothing,  save  that  he  has  sung 
With  the  passion  he  inherits  for  the  glory  of  thy  tongue. 

In  my  pages,  if  thou  readest,  there  is  proof  shall  glad  thy 

heart, 
That  the  children  whom  thou  breedest,  though  by  oceans  set 

apart. 
While  thy  vital  sap  preserving  in  a  world  so  far  from  thee, 
O  my  France,  are  never  swerving  from  thy  sacred  memory. 

Despite  the  victors'  ruling,  and  despite  the  blow  of  Fate, 
Mother,  we  make  no  puling,  and  our  patient  hearts  are  great ; 
By  the  green  St.  Lawrence  River,  with  the  English  flag  above, 
Oh,  forever  and  forever  thy  children  give  thee  love. 


144 


AUTUMN  SONG 
AUTUMN  SONG 

ACHILLE    FRECHETTE 

Away,  ye  vain  numberless  shadows,  unsplendid, 
Unperfumed,  uncolored,  mid  which  my  hfe  wended! 
Now  the  gloom  of  my  dream  is  illumed  by  her  beauty, 

Her  heart-stirring  beauty. 

'Neath  murky  gray  skies  trailed  my  heavy-foot  hours 
On  into  the  bleakness  where  evening  lowers; 
To  my  travail  she  came  with  the  cheer  of  her  joyance, 

Her  spirit  and  joyance. 

Fruits  fallen,  nests  vacant,  and  meadows  in  stubble, 
My  path  ever  hardened  by  cold  airs  above; 
Oh,  the  long  arid  days  I  went  lonely  in  trouble, 
Till  the  thirst  of  my  heart  was  allayed  by  her  love, 

The  wine  of  her  love. 

Late  flowers,  breathe  fragrance!   Oh,  branches  rejoicing 
With  birds  that  again  come  alighting  in  bliss. 
Dear  creatures,  their  anthems  a  thousand  times  voicing 
My  joy  that  she  blesses  my  lips  with  her  kiss, 

Her  lips  and  her  kiss! 


H5 


TO    CANADA 
TO  CANADA^ 

FROM   THE    SCLAVONIC 

0  FREE  and  fresh-home  Canada !    Can  we, 
Born  far  o'er-seas,  call  thee  our  country  dear  ? 

1  know  not  whence  nor  how  that  right  may  be 
Gained  through  but  sharing  blessings  year  by  year. 

We  were  not  reared  within  thy  broad  domains, 
Our  parents'  graves  and  corpses  he  afar ; 
They  did  not  fall  for  Freedom  on  thy  plains. 
Nor  we  win  Victory  beneath  thy  star. 

Yet  have  we  Liberty  from  sea  to  sea; 
Frankly  and  true  you  gave  us  Manhood's  share, 
We  who,  like  wandering  birds,  flew  hopefully 
To  gather  grain  upon  thy  acres  fair. 

We  swarmed  from  ancient  worlds  by  wrong  opprest, 
Many  as  ants,  to  scatter  on  thy  land. 
Each  to  the  place  you  gave,  aided  and  blest 
And  freed  from  fear  of  Kings  and  Nobles  grand. 

And  are  you  not,  O  Canada,  our  own  ? 
Nay,  we  are  still  but  holders  of  thy  soil,  — 
We  have  not  earned  by  sacrifice  and  groan 
The  right  to  boast  the  country  where  we  toil. 

But,  Canada,  our  hearts  are  thine  till  death, 
Our  children  shall  be  free  to  call  thee  theirs. 
Their  own  dear  land  where,  gladly  drawing  breath. 
Their  parents  found  safe  homes,  and  left  strong  heirs 

*  The  original  is  by  Michael  Gowda,  a  Galician  of  Edmonton,  Alberta,  who 
furnished  an  Eni^lish  prose  translation  here  versified.  "  Fresh-home  "  is  Mr.  Gow- 
da's own  happy  adjective. 

146 


TO    CANADA 

Of  homes,  and  native  freedom,  and  the  heart 
To  Hve  and  strive  and  die,  if  need  there  be, 
In  standing  manfully  by  honor's  part 
To  guard  the  country  that  has  made  us  free. 

They  shall  as  brothers  be  to  all  the  rest, 

Yet  proud  to  own  the  blood  from  which  they  sprang, 

True  to  their  Fathers'  creed,  and  His  behest, 

For  whom  the  bells  of  yester  Christmas  rang. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


OC  SOUTHERN  a;;aa 


ffi      000  245  500    4 


